


Les trois Français

by letterfromtrenwith



Series: The Ross Poldark Mysteries [1]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Crime AU, F/M, I don't think it's "graphic" but this work does discuss death and murder, Let me take out my frustrated inner crime writer on this fandom, Other, mystery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromtrenwith/pseuds/letterfromtrenwith
Summary: 1793. After returning from the Americas to find only disappointment and heartbreak in Cornwall, Ross Poldark fled the place he once called home. Several years later, he leads a disordered, secretive life as one of London’s infamous Bow Street Runners, losing himself in the city’s murky alleyways and dark criminal workings.His Aunt Agatha’s declining health finally convinces him to go back to Trenwith, the Poldark family home. There, he finds his cousin Francis, the county’s chief magistrate, embroiled in the perplexing case of the murders of three French emigres. Unable to resist the lure of a mystery, Ross must confront local politics, long-neglected friends, old enemies and lost loves in order to find the truth.





	1. Prologue

In his haste he fumbled the papers, scattering them across the rug at his feet. Cursing, he scrabbled them together, finally bundling them into the fireplace, singeing his fingertips clumsily. There was no time to worry about the pain – tonight was his only opportunity for escape. His agonies would be much greater if he did not.

The ancient hinges of the chamber door squealed agonisingly and he held his breath, waiting for a servant or nocturnally-minded guest to investigate the noise, but after a moment there was no sign of anyone. Not risking closing the door, he crept along the hallway towards the back staircase, wincing at every step.  God curse these hulking old English piles! How he missed the airy, open galleries of Versailles. What state were they in now? Occupied by some fat, jumped up peasant? O torn to pieces by the filthy rabble?

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he glanced left and right, ears straining for the slightest noise. If he was seen now, he might be able to explain himself to a servant, but if they were to tell anyone…There were so many eyes and ears here, no doubt the information would get back to the wrong person somehow.

For a rich family, these Enys’ were oddly careless of their security – the lock on the back door was almost as certainly as old as the house and therefore a simple matter to pick, although his burnt fingertips impeded his progress, and every rattle and click made his heart skip.

Outside, he shivered in the damp night air, pulling his coat tighter around him. Lord, the miserable weather here. It never stopped. He could count on the fingers of one hand the days the sun had shone since his arrival here. No wonder the English were so dreary, as if their terrible beer and awful food and filthy, heretic religion were not enough. At least the place he fled to still held to the True Faith.

The crunch of the gravel on the wide driveway was another agony, and he near leapt out of his skin when one of the swans which dwelled on Killewarren’s moat flapped and splashed in the water. His nerves were shredded – the sooner he was on the water the better, as far away from this place as possible.

Despite the drizzle, there was little cloud cover, and the moonlight was not conducive to stealth. His fine leather shoes were soon soaked – he had had no time to steal a pair of boots. Thankfully, he made it quickly to the blessed cover of the woods, where the horse should be waiting for him.

But it was not there. Had he mistaken the location? No, this was the clearing, and here – there was a rope tied around a tree. He couldn’t see very clearly beneath the branches, but managed to follow the rope to a frayed end. The horse must have managed to break free, he thought, even as his touch told him that the rope was cleanly cut, as if by a knife.

A branch broke behind him and he whirled around, reaching for his own knife, a short dagger concealed in his coat. The drizzle had become heavier, and he struggled to peer into the grey gloom. Another crack, this time on the other side of the clearing. He turned again, frantic, but still could make out nothing. For what seemed an eternity, all he could hear was the blood pounding through his veins.

Just as he began to relax, he was struck a great, heavy blow to his back, sending him sprawling onto the damp earth, knife falling from his grip and out of his reach. He felt for it, before he was roughly rolled onto his back. A bulky, squat figure stood over him, the face in shadow.

“Who are you?” He demanded. To his surprise, the man answered in French, with a guttural, commoners’ accent.

“Do you not know me? But of course not; the likes of me are beneath your notice. If we are not serving you, we are nothing. I have been here for weeks, right underneath your nose, and you never so much as glanced in my direction. Have you forgotten, already? What you did? What you stole from me?”

“I – “ His mind raced, something about the man, his voice… “Oh God, please. No. I am sorry, so sorry. Have mercy…”

“Mercy?! What mercy did you have? Any of you?” The figure advanced, and he scrambled back in fear, heels sliding in the mulch. Managing to secure a semblance of footing he turned to lurch to his feet, strong hands grasping at his coat. With a desperate movement, he shook himself free, hearing fabric tear.

Uncaring, Edouard d’Aubigné ran for his life.


	2. I

“Come, Aunt, you must drink, it will make you feel better.” Verity lifted the cup to Agatha’s mouth, but the old woman batted it away.

“There’s no feeling better from death, child!”

“Aunt, please!” Francis heard the crack in his sister’s voice and his heart ached for her – probably more so than it did for Agatha, as guilty as that made him feel. He did care for the old woman, as awful as she could be, and he was grieved by her decline, but he had never been as close to her as Verity.

“Dr Enys promised that it would soothe you, Aunt. Please drink it.” The old woman gave him a sour look, and grumbled under her breath, but finally took the cup from Verity, pushing her hand away when she tried to help. Verity glanced back at him gratefully.

“I can manage!” She drained it, twisting her mouth in disgust. “When’s Ross visiting?”

“Ross is in London, Aunt, I told you.” At least that was what his last letter had said. The London news sheets took days to get to Cornwall, but Francis scoured them for mentions of his erstwhile cousin, feeling disloyal as he went first to the proceedings of the Old Bailey. Although quite in what capacity he expected Ross to be mentioned he was never sure.  

Before Agatha could complain further, there was a hard banging on Trenwith’s big old front door, loud enough to echo into the parlour. A few moments later Mrs Tabb hurried in, brandishing a note.

“From Killewarren, Sir.” The handwriting was not that of either of theEnys’, however, but George Warleggan.

_Francis_

_Your services as Magistrate are urgently required. It is better if you see for yourself._

_George_

The terse note was quite typical of George – he was always one to get straight to the point when necessary – but Francis could sense the underlying urgency. His friend’s peculiarly slanting handwriting was not as meticulously neat as usual, a long flourish on the ends of the letters. The missive had obviously been penned in haste.

He found a nervous looking footman in Killewarren livery waiting for him on the driveway, holding the reins of a horse.

“Do you know what has happened?” Francis asked as a stable boy brought his own mount.

“One of the Fro – Frenchmen staying at the house, Sir. I think he might be dead.” George’s urgent note suddenly made perfect sense.

Pushing the horses, they made it to Killewarren in good time, Caroline Enys hurrying out to meet them.

“Oh, it’s too dreadful!” Her pretty face was pale, a glisten of tears in her eyes. She had obviously had a shock. “Just like the other poor Monsieurs!”

“Who is it?”

“M. d’Aubigné. He was not in his chambers this morning, and the door was open. One of the gamekeepers was out checking his traps and – oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand, and Francis gently touched her elbow reassuringly.

George appeared in the hall from what Francis thought was the direction of the kitchens.

“He’s down here.” Francis followed him through a small wooden door and down some roughly-scrubbed steps. He had never been to this part of the house, but it was much like similar rooms at Trenwith. They passed the kitchens, servants seemingly going about their normal business, but there was an obvious atmosphere of agitation.

In a small room along a corridor – as if he had been taken as far away from the main part of the house as possible – M. d’Aubigné lay on a rough-hewn table, Dr Dwight Enys – master of the house since his marriage to the young heiress – casting a critical eye over what was left of the poor man. The smell of death was unmistakable, barely masked by the scent of the cheap tallow candles lighting the cramped space. So cramped in fact that George had to remain in the doorway to allow Francis to join the doctor at the table.

“I imagine you do not need me to tell you that this was no accident.”

“I do not.” The Frenchman’s expensive clothing was near shredded, the tatters soaked in gore. Dwigh had pulled some of the ruined fabric away to expose the man’s torso, which Francis could only describe as butchered. “Dear God.”

“I shall have to examine him more closely to be definitive, but there are at least twenty wounds here. It’s impossible to tell which was the fatal blow.”

“When?”

“Several hours ago. Mortis has passed.”

“After nine o’clock last night.” Francis looked at George in surprise.

“How do you know that?”

“Caroline sent a note last evening asking me to call upon her this morning; it would have been at least nine o’clock by the time the footman returned, and he would have had to go through the woods where d’Aubigne was found.” So that explained how George had beaten him here.

“Who else knows about this?”

“The entire household, unfortunately, which means it will be all over the district by noon, if it is not already.”

“Damn. After de Vayssiére and du Pas, this is the third emigre in six weeks. We shall have panic on our hands if this murderer is not found.” He caught a look pass between George and the Doctor. “What?”

“I cannot comment as to M. de Vayssiére as I did not examine him, but M. du Pas was stabbed only once through the heart. His death would have been swift and relatively painless. M. d’Aubigné has been, as you can see, utterly brutalised. The tip of the knife broke off in one of the wounds, such was the force used.” Enys reached behind him to pick up a pair of forceps, which Francis saw held a small, jagged piece of metal. “This was a rusty, rather rough blade, while M. du Pas’ killer used a smaller, sharper knife so far as I could tell.”

“And all of this means?” Francis asked the question, although, sickeningly, he already knew the answer.

“I believe M. du Pas and M. d’Aubigné were not killed by the same person.”

Francis sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. If both deaths were the result of personal disputes, then they perhaps did not have some sort of French hating maniac stalking the district, although it would be difficult to convince the emigres otherwise. On the other hand, two murderers was hardly better than one.

“All right. If you could make notes of your examination, Dwight, that would be most useful.”

“Of course. I will make the arrangements for the body, also.”

“Thank you. Did he have the funds to pay for a burial?” He looked to George for this last question. Many of the French – at least, those who had managed to bring any money or valuables with them – had availed themselves of the services of the Warleggan Bank.

“M. d’Aubigné did not bank with me, but perhaps Caroline may know more of his arrangements.”

She did not, as it turned out, but promised to ask her other guests – only four of them left now, gathered in a nervous group by the fireplace in the great hall. Caroline was still a little pale, but the housekeeper had pressed a glass of brandy on her, despite it being barely ten o’clock in the morning. After Dr Enys emerged from the depths of the house, George and Francis left him to tend to his wife. Francis hoped she had not seen the body – he was not a great believer in the alleged ‘delicacy’ of females, but it was a horrific sight for anyone.

“An arrest must be made soon, or there will be mass hysteria.” Francis observed as he and George awaited their horses on the driveway.

“More than one, if Dwight is correct.”

“Do you think he is?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. If whoever killed d’Aubigné hates the French so much, why be so relatively merciful with M. du Pas?”

“And where does de Vayssiére fit in?” George glanced away. Most of French emigres to Britain had settled in the capital, but a few had come further afield, including to Cornwall. So far, they had all been comfortably accommodated between Killewarren, Sir Francis Bassett’s home at Tehidy, and as guests of the Warleggans at Cusgarne, the family home of George’s wife, Elizabeth. While the two most recent unfortunates had been living with the Enyses, M.  deVayssiére had lived at Cusgarne. Perhaps George was a little more affected by the death of his guest than he had previously admitted.

“Well, considering where he was found, that may have been the work of a thief.”

“Well, then we have _three_ murderers!” Francis knew George was probably right, however. The unfortunate gentleman had met his end courtesy of a knife to the back in an alleyway in Truro, not far from both a gambling den and a bawdy house. He would not be the first to face such a demise, but with everything else that had happened since, Francis could not ignore the possibility that it was more complicated than that.

“I do not envy you, my friend.” George mounted his horse with practiced ease. “I am afraid I must get to the Bank; I am very late.”

Francis turned his own horse in the other direction, returning to Trenwith with a heavy heart. After first becoming a magistrate, he had frequently bemoaned the dull parade of drunks and petty larcenists trailed before him week in week out. Oh! What he wouldn’t give to return to that tedium.

Ever since war had broken out, he found his legal duties demanding more and more of his time – the county besieged by smugglers, gangers, profiteers and every other kind of parasite. Food shortages and civil unrest had upped the murders, assaults and robberies, and he had been forced to call out the militia on more than one near-riot. His fellow magistrates always seemed to be peculiarly indisposed when anything especially taxing was to be done, beyond collecting their fees.

Back home, he sorted through what little information he had on the three dead men. By law, the emigres were required to report their details to the justices, but Francis could find no obvious connection between the three men amongst his records, bar the latter two both lodging at Killewarren. All three had originated from different parts of France, de Vayssiére a more highly ranked noble than d’Aubigné, who had been a fairly minor member of the royal retinue – as he had been fond of boasting to anyone who would listen. Du Pas had been the only one with an occupation – a physician to the nobility, he left France very early on, originally settling in London before moving south in the hope of finding more work. His skills had earned him respect and admiration amongst even locals, even those who were more suspicious of the French. He was an especially great loss.

What motive any of the deaths could have was another puzzle – aside from their nationality, of course. He did not know any of the men particularly well – du Pas had accompanied Dwight to visit Agatha once but the old woman had flatly refused to be seen by “a Papist quack”, and he had met the other two at a few functions, but that was it. His French was mediocre, and it was a little tiresome forever having to have George or Elizabeth translate for him, or struggle through with his own inadequate grasp.

Sighing, he picked up the bell to call for something to eat. He was not especially in the mood, but his stomach had finally rumbled in revolt at lack of sustenance. A messenger had called earlier with the doctor’s report on his examination of d’Aubigné, although Francis doubted he would gain anything from it except an even more deadened appetite.

Before he could unfold the papers, however, the study door burst open, admitting not a servant but a very excited-looking Verity.

“Francis! Ross is here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying so far! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next ch...The prodigal son returns.


	3. II

“Is it really him?” If Ross hadn’t been feigning sleep, Ruth Treneglos’ attempt at a whisper would have woken him up.

“Certainly looks like it. At least, after a roll through a few dens of iniquity.” Her husband sniffed, not entirely inaccurately, Ross thought ruefully. He vaguely recalled one of the letters from Cornwall which had managed to reach him mentioning that Ruth had gotten herself married to John. They were well suited, in Ross’ opinion.

“Why has he come back now?”

“They say the old woman’s dying. Agatha.”

“Hm. He didn’t bother when Charles died. Or his own father.” Ross tightened his grip on his coat, gritting his teeth. He did not care to be indirectly reproached by this pair. The fact that there was some justification to their disapproval only added to its chafe.

Dennis, the toothless proprietor of _The Star_ had slid Verity’s letter across the grubby bartop six days earlier, already three weeks after it had arrived. Irregular communication was a burden of Ross’ peripatetic existence, and he suspected that his relations had ceased to expect regular answers. He had established the tavern – a squat, half timber-framed building hidden away in a back-alley – as his primary ‘address’ a few years previously, but he could be weeks away from it. Imagining the look on his cousin’s face if she could see the place she faithfully addressed her missives to often amused him.

This letter was not the first in which she had begged him to return to Cornwall, but something in this one seemed to have touched him more deeply than the rest. He had found himself thinking of home more often recently – of the beaches and caves and fields, of Nampara and Trenwith – all so different from the dark, grimy alleys and stinking waterways of the city. His family came more often to mind, as well. Not just Verity , but Francis, Agatha, Charles…He regretted not seeing his uncle again, even if he had never been especially close to the old man. It had been Charles who encouraged him to leave Cornwall in the first place.

He had returned from the Americas with a flutter of hope in his breast. After all that he had witnessed, after what he had done to get himself there in the first place, he was finally coming home. But he had returned to find almost all that had carried him through gone – his father dead, Nampara in ruins, and the woman he loved married to another man.

“Make a fresh start, boy. There’s naught left for you here.” A fat envelope pressed into his hand in the dingy, crumbling sitting room of Nampara. Angry and desolate, he’d taken both the money and his uncle’s advice, at least somewhat. It hadn’t taken long for the funds to run out, passed over a card table or a bar top, amongst other things, while he wallowed in depression and heartbreak.

A lot of time had passed since then – perhaps too much time – but something had drawn him back now, the fine thread tying him to Cornwall not severed as he had thought.

The Treneglos’ had semblance enough of decency to look embarrassed when Ross sat up and banged the carriage roof – demonstrating that he had never been asleep at all. He ignored their attempts to greet him, however, and stepped out at his chosen destination. The coachman dropped his box into the mud with little ceremony, and with a snap of the driver’s riding crop, the carriage trundled away. Ross stood at a bare crossroads, every direction leading to places he had not seen for years and memories he did not wish to revisit. With a sigh, he hauled his meagre possessions into his arms, and set off walking.

~

“Oh, Ross, oh, how happy I am to see you.” Verity clung to him, before pulling back to look at him. She frowned, and he noted the new lines on her face – he had kept thinking of her as his boyhood playmate, even when he knew full well that she was a grown woman with a husband and family of her own. He watched her take him in, knowing that he did not exactly look his best – his hair had grown shaggy, and the rough que it was pulled into did little for its appearance. Taverns and gambling dens being more usual haunts than coffee- and chop-houses, he had lost weight and he knew he looked rather gaunt. There was rarely any need for fine clothes in his occupation, so even his best coat looked rather shabby compared to Verity’s simple day dress.

“And I you, Verity.” He meant it. She had been his only real point of contact with his past life for years, although that was mostly his own fault.

“What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Living a life of wild adventure, no doubt.” Francis appeared in the doorway to the great hall, and Ross was struck even more by the difference between the Francis he had held in his mind all these years, and the Francis who was before him. He had barely seen his cousin when he came back from the Americas, leaving Cornwall after just one devastating visit to Trenwith. In his mind, Francis was still the gangly, awkward boy he had known. Instead, here stood a serious, sombre man, soberly dressed, with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

Francis had long since given him up as a lost cause, Ross was sure, letters stopping quite some time ago. It had not taken much reading between the lines of Verity’s missives to conclude that his cousin did not approve of his abandonment of the Poldark family as a whole. Ross felt his ire rise at Francis’ blatant disapproval, but forced himself to calm. An argument was not the best way to return home – and, frankly, was Francis not entirely within his right to feel that way?  

“Francis. How are you?”

“Better than you, by the look of it.”

“Francis…” Verity scolded. Francis sighed.

“Come cousin, let us get you something to eat.”

“Francis? Verity? What are you about?” Agatha’s voice echoed down a corridor somewhere ahead, and Ross’ heart suddenly ached, his long-buried homesickness hitting him with full force at last. It was almost physical, and he swayed slightly on his feet.

“Ross?! Come, come and sit down.” Verity took him gently but firmly by the arm and tugged him towards the parlour. Ross did not resist.

~

“So, why are you really back?” Ross started as Francis shut the study door behind him. The room had barely changed since Uncle Charles’ day, save it was more cluttered now, piles of books and papers spread over every surface seemingly at random, maps and diagrams pinned to the walls.

He had arrived at Trenwith late in the morning, and despite the hour Verity insisted on both a hot bath and hot food. Ross found himself pathetically grateful for both, his last bath in a cramped wooden tub in a less than salubrious establishment just off Greek Street, and his last food a plate of what _might_ have been gruel at a coach-house just outside Truro.

After enduring an extended earful from Agatha concerning his ‘neglect’, the old woman had taken a bad coughing fit, and eventually dozed off after Verity managed to press some medicine on her. His great aunt was clearly drawing closer to the end, and it grieved him, but her indomitable spirit had not left her.

Verity had excused herself to write some letters, but not before embracing Ross tightly once again and repeating her delight at his return. It was Francis who suggested a drink in his study, telling Ross to make himself at home and he would join him shortly.

Ross had always privately thought of Francis as somewhat ineffectual, but it appeared that Charles’ death had been the making of him. He seemed to have taken on the family fortunes with gusto, not to mention numerous other things. A small side table held a bill for chancel repairs, and plans for what looked like a drainage system. By the look of it, Grambler had been extended, a new shaft sunk – he wondered how she was producing. It was Francis’ desk which most intrigued him, however – papers from the court showed he had taken Charles’ seat on the bench, but a sheet covered in Francis’ handwriting caught his eye. His cousin’s spidery hand was something which had not changed, and Ross carefully turned the paper towards him, squinting at the notes.  

_Vayssiere. du Pas. d’Aubigné_

_Stabbed, V & P once, A multiple – why?_

_V – Truro, P – cliff path, A –woods_

_V at Cusgarne, P & A at Killewarren_

_Connection? Motive? French?_

_Debts?_

_A – c_

Ross could not make out the last word, and was so busy trying to read it that he did not hear Francis enter, and was forced to take an obviously guilty step back from the desk.

“Wh – What did you say, cousin?”

“I said,” Francis poured two glasses of sherry from the decanter on the sideboard, coming to hand one to Ross before dropping into his desk chair, “Why are you really back? Apart from to snoop at my papers, that is?”

Ross had no excuse for that so kept silent.

“Well? Gambling debts? Angry husband? Fleeing the authorities? What is it?” It took Ross a moment to realise that Francis was almost entirely serious and his temper flared once more.

“How can you ask me that?! I have come to see Agatha!”

“So you say, and so Verity seems to think, but why now? My father’s death was not important enough to bring you back, nor Verity’s marriage, or the birth of her child, so why the sudden familial duty?”

“I – “ The wind dropped out of Ross’ sails as quickly as it had risen. He could hardly blame Francis for being suspicious. What reason had he not to be? Ross had disgraced himself and the family once before, and done little since to make up for it. “I thought it was time I returned.”

“ _Past_ time. Surely even the business of Bow Street has not kept you occupied for all this time.”

“How – “ Francis’ letters had stopped shortly after Ross’ employment by the magistrates, so he had never told either of his cousins about his occupation. His rare letters to Verity included vague reassurances that he was occupied and well provided for, even if that was not always strictly true. Any more details would only have worried her.

“Even one as unsociable as you cannot entirely escape the notice of Fleet Street, cousin.” He opened a desk drawer and rummaged inside, producing a well-worn news-sheet – _The Morning Chronicle_ by the look of it. Squinting a little, he read: _Jack Reed, a Notorious Footpad who Has Plagued our Fine City’s Streets for These Six Months, has been Finally Apprehended by the Gentlemen of the Bow Street Runners, Namely a Mr Beau Blackstone and Captain Ross Poldark, Formerly of His Majesty’s 62 nd Regiment of Foot_.

“Ah.” Damn. He’d generally done his best to keep his name out of the papers. It wasn’t good for business to become notorious, for one thing. “Does Verity know?”

“She’s never mentioned it if she does. I don’t think she reads the papers, but I imagine Blamey does when he’s at home. So…a Bow Street Runner?”

“We don’t usually use that term.” Ross grumbled, weakly. He suddenly pitied the scoundrels dragged before Francis in the magistrates’ court – his cousin had truly changed a great deal. He supposed coming home to find near strangers was the price one paid for spending so long away.

“Well, whatever you call yourself, since you’re so interested in my business – “ he raised an eyebrow and Ross cleared his throat, taking a large swallow of his sherry – “perhaps you’d like to render a professional opinion.”

And with that, he proceeded to tell Ross an extraordinary tale. The three dead Frenchmen, corresponding to the names on the paper, and their mysterious deaths. Ross had seen his share of murder and mayhem in the capital, but he would never expect such here in Cornwall. After Francis had finished, he took a few moments to absorb it all.

“And M. d’Aubigné’s death was especially violent, you say?”

“Well, you read my notes.”

“I couldn’t make out the last word.”

“Ah.” Francis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You see, M. d’Aubigné was, or at least very nearly was…castrated.”


	4. III

Stifling a yawn, George put a foot on the bottom step, intending to go straight to bed. However, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flicker of candlelight coming from the parlour. As he pushed open the door, his eyes alighted on the cradle, his baby son lying quietly inside. Nicholas, two and a half months old, was awake as he was wont to be at the most inconvenient hours. He was, however, otherwise peaceful, bright eyes peering up curiously at his father, little arms and legs shifting aimlessly.

“Hello, my boy,” George murmured, reaching down to gently stroke his cheek, making the boy burble happily.

Nicholas’ mother, Elizabeth, was asleep, dozing on the sofa next to the fireplace, her favourite shawl about her shoulders. It had been a gift from George on their honeymoon, and although it was looking a touch worn several years later, she insisted that it was too precious to her to give away. With such a young child, she needed her rest, and he was loathe to disturb her, but the way she was lying would likely cause her discomfort if she spent the night there.

“My dear?” George sat next to her, gently touching her arm. She started awake, glancing around in confusion before her eyes settled on him and she relaxed.

“Oh, George. What time is it?”

“After eleven, my love.”

“Oh my…I must have drifted off. Nicholas would not sleep so I thought I would sit up with him for a while.”

“He is not asleep, but quite content I think.”

“He and I are not the only ones who should be in bed.” She smiled, a gentle teasing note in her voice. His long working hours were a minor bone of contention between them – Elizabeth entirely understood the demands on his time, but that did not stop an occasional affectionate rebuke on her part

“Sadly, I have much to do…and much to think about.”

“I believe we have been puzzling over the same thing.”

“Indeed? Well, I hope you have come to more solid conclusions than I. It is putting a great deal of strain on Francis – he is worried some chronic murderer of Frenchmen is stalking the district; or at least that the other French might get that idea.”

“Well, we know it was no such person who killed M de Vayssiere.”

“Yes, but we cannot offer Francis the proof, you know that.” Elizabeth nodded, pursing her lips thoughtfully. He had debated taking her into his confidences some years ago, but had ultimately never regretted it for a moment. Aside from a natural aversion to keeping secrets from his wife, her intelligence and sensitivity made her an entirely invaluable confidant.

“Why not tell him the entire truth? You have considered it before.”

“I do not know if the time is right. I should not wish to put him in a difficult position.”

“If Rev. Halse does choose to retire, it may force your hand.” She was, as always, correct. It had been subtly indicated to George that should any sitting magistrate retire, he would be the preferred choice as replacement. It would be an extremely useful position to hold, for several reasons, but could also cause something of a conflict of interest. However, that was a bridge to be crossed when he came to it, and he said as much to Elizabeth.

“Of course, we also have a notion of the motive for M d’Aubigné’s death.”

“But no firm idea.”

“No, it is too soon. In any case, motive sadly does not indicate perpetrator. Not in these circumstance, at least.”

“I wish I could be more help, I have been out of society for too long…” She had suffered more than usual from the typical nausea of expectant motherhood, and been required to rest for some weeks before the birth. Although there had been plenty of visitors, and Elizabeth was not what one might call a ‘social butterfly’, he knew her relative isolation had bored and frustrated her.

“No, Elizabeth. You know that you have been invaluable. Besides, you were occupied with much more important matters…” He glanced down at the cradle, where Nicholas now seemed to be dozing, with a smile. Sharing his fond expression, Elizabeth bent and stroked the soft wisp of a fair curl from the baby’s forehead. As she sat up, she adjusted her shawl and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“I have been thinking…perhaps du Pas was robbed? I know the coastal path is not generally thought of as dangerous, but road agents are not unheard of.”

“His money and watch were still with him. Francis’ men recovered them.”

“But his bag was taken, was it not? Perhaps the thief thought he carried his valuables in there? Especially if they did not know he was a doctor.” Elizabeth was of course quite right, and George had considered these very same possibilities himself.

“Everything you say is very sensible, my dear, and I cannot find fault with it, except…it seems _too much_ of a coincidence. Or perhaps I am merely trying to find a pattern where there is none.” To his surprise, Elizabeth laughed, and he frowned.

“Oh, I am sorry, my love…but I came to the very same conclusion!” At his mama’s exclamation, Nicholas fussed, perhaps objecting to being disturbed. Elizabeth leaned down and scooped him up in her arms. “Ohhh, hush, I am sorry, my pet.”

She rocked him gently and eventually he settled again. George gently touched his little hand, feeling a great wave of love when Nicholas took a tight hold of his finger. All three sat in peaceful silence, until Elizabeth continued.

“This is most frustrating. But perhaps there is more to learn. I did not get a chance to speak to Madame de Voyer at the christening, and you know what a gossip she is – she will be bursting to tell me everything I have missed. Most of it will be outrageous speculation, of course, but she may have something worthwhile. Then again, it is possible Caroline will not go ahead with her party after what has happened.”

“You did not intend to go, surely?” Caroline Enys had been due to host a dinner party in three days’ time, and they had of course been invited. George had not especially wished to go, particularly without Elizabeth, but recognised that it was necessary, even before d’Aubigné’s murder.

“Well, of course.” Elizabeth frowned. “Why should I not? I have been churched – tiresome practice that it is – and Nicholas has been christened. It is quite proper for me to be out in society again.”

“Yes, but I do not wish to you over-exert yourself.”

“Oh, George…I am quite well, you know that.” She looked at him with a familiar expression of fond exasperation. “After five children, surely you trust me to know myself?”

“Oh, of course I do, my dear. I know that I fuss, but I find I cannot help myself. You will admit I am not quite so tiresome about it as I once was?” He was sure he had been quite insufferable when Elizabeth was expecting their first son, Valentine, now almost eight, but Elizabeth had put up with him. He had tried to be less overbearing three years later when their eldest daughter, Ursula, had arrived.  
Then came the twins, however, almost four years ago, when Elizabeth had not only been forced to endure a prolonged birth, but also his near-constant hovering both before and after it. The safe arrival of their beautiful daughters, Clare and Susannah, had only lessened his concern a touch. He knew he worried too much, but Elizabeth and their children were more precious to him than anything else. For several reasons, he was very much aware of how fragile life could be.

“You are not tiresome at all, George. Where would we all be without your love and care for us?” She smiled, and he could not resist the urge to kiss her, no more than a soft press of his lips to hers, until Nicholas made a cross noise, perhaps feeling a little squashed between his parents. Elizabeth soothed him gently. “Verity called earlier today, I meant to tell you.”

“Oh yes? How is she?

“Well. She made a great fuss of the children – she misses her own, I think, poor thing, but she is determined to stay with Agatha until the end.” George had never liked the old Poldark matriarch, and she in turn loathed him, so he had to admit that he could not grieve too deeply her imminent passing; but he knew what it was to lose one’s family, and he sympathised with Francis and his sister. “She is delighted that Ross is back, at last.”

“Yes. I imagine so.” George shifted on the sofa just a touch uncomfortably. He was not entirely sure how he felt about the return of his old – rival? At school, he had wavered between admiration and irritation at Ross’ brash, careless attitude. They had generally rubbed one another the wrong way – and Ross’ collusion with some of those who elected to hold George’s low-born status against him did not help. It had made things somewhat awkward for Francis to say the least.

“You know, I was barely sixteen when he and I talked about marrying?” Elizabeth shook her head. “It seems a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. It will be odd to see him again. For you too, I imagine.”

“You know me too well.” George had fallen in love with Elizabeth almost the very first moment they met, and it had not improved his inclination towards Ross at all to find out that she was likely engaged to him. George had never held any real hopes of marrying Elizabeth, not after Ross got himself sent away in disgrace, not even after it was reported that Ross was dead in battle. He had not hated Ross enough to triumph at the news, especially not in the face of Elizabeth’s deep grief.

It had almost seemed a dream, when he had come to realise some time later that his feelings for her were returned. They had been on their wedding trip when Ross had appeared alive and well in Cornwall, so had not heard the news until he had already left again. Elizabeth had assured George that – as pleased as she was that Ross was not dead – it changed nothing else.

“You remember what I said then, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking of. She usually did – George had always prided himself on being generally inscrutable, and he had found it an extremely valuable skill, but Elizabeth could not be fooled. “My life has changed, _I_ have changed. And that is now almost ten years the truer. If you had asked me then to imagine my future, it would not have been like this, but only because I could never have dreamed of the happiness this life has brought me.”

“Oh, Elizabeth…” George lifted a hand to caress her cheek, and she leant into the touch, smiling her soft smile.

“Now,” she looked down at their slumbering baby boy, “I suggest we follow our son’s example and get some rest.”


	5. IV

“How long have the dead Frenchmen been here?” There was an abrupt silence at the breakfast table, and Ross realised that he had spoken the question aloud unprompted. After Francis explained the case to him the day of his arrival, Ross had sworn up and down that he did not want to get involved, that he was only here to see his family. Francis looked unconvinced but apparently accepted it. However, in the intervening two days, Ross had found himself turning the issue over in his mind, leading to Agatha snapping at him more than once for not paying attention to her.

“Come all the way back here just to ignore me!”

Now, he had given himself away and the triumphant smirk Francis failed to hide behind his tea cup was highly irritating. He had been away for over ten years, and somehow his cousin could still read him like a book.

“Changed your mind, cousin?” Ross said nothing, annoyed at having given in. Francis chuckled. “Very well. de Vayssiére arrived in ’91 – he landed at Falmouth. du Pas came to London sometime in the ‘80s, but came down here last year to see if he could find more work – as I’m sure you know, London is overrun with medical men, both genuine and otherwise. d’Aubigné arrived shortly after, also from London.”

“Both from London?”

“I thought the same thing, but there’s no evidence they met in the capital, or knew each other before lodging at Killewarren. They’re from different parts of France, and I can see no other connection.”

“There must be one.”

“Not necessarily. If they were killed by different people, as your friend Dr Enys says.” Ross ignored the stab of guilt the mention of Dwight Enys brought. As a young medic, Dwight had treated Ross in the battlefield hospital in Virginia, turning a potentially disfiguring head wound into a neat scar beside his left eye. They had become good friends thereafter, travelling home to England together before Ross made his first terrible visit to Cornwall.

They were eventually reunited in London – when Ross finally made it there. Dwight had patched him up – and sobered him up. The doctor’s decision to return to his native county after completing his medical studies had come dangerously close to tempting Ross to return also. They promised to keep in touch, but like everyone else Dwight had had to contend with sporadic, abrupt replies. Bar Verity, he was the only one to persist in writing. Ross knew he should visit Dwight – should really have done so already – but the self-recrimination that his reunions with his family had brought was quite enough to be going on with.

“Must we discuss this at breakfast?” Verity’s complaint butted into his thoughts, and Francis tutted.

“Very well, sister, we shall take our discussion elsewhere, since we have a call to pay.” It took a moment for that to register with Ross.

“We do?”

“Yes.”

~

“This is Nampara land, is it not?” Ross frowned as their horses crested the small hillock. They had ridden east from Trenwith, towards the sea.  His memories of his childhood home seemed so far back in time as to be shrouded in mists, but he was sure that he recalled running along these paths with Francis as a boy.

“Yes, it is. We are to visit one of your tenants.”

“Tenants? I have tenants?”

“Well, some income had to be generated for the estate while you were gone. Uncle Joshua left it in my father’s care until you returned, so I had to take it on after his death. I look forward to handing all the papers over to you!” Ross grimaced, reminded of yet another thing he had neglected while burrowing himself into the chaos and filth of London.

They approached a clifftop cottage, a rough-hewn but attractive building that he remembered little of. A gaggle of dirty peasant-children scampered towards them as they tied up their horses. Francis fished in his coat and distributed a few coins into eager little hands.  A moment later, the cottage door opened and a thin, sallow-looking woman emerged. Her clothes were worn and much-mended, hair piled under a grubby cap. Clutching a small package, she made to gather the urchins before coming to a startled stop when she noticed Ross and Francis.

“Oh, sirs – I –“ With a jerky bob, she rushed away, the little ones scampering behind her.

“Do you know that woman?” Ross asked, watching her disappear along the cliff-top.

“Not particularly. I believe her husband is a miner – Drabble, I think?” What business would that woman have with his mysterious tenant, Ross wondered? Who were they coming to see? Francis offered an immediate answer by promptly knocking on the cottage’s oaken door. It opened to reveal a young woman, her face brightening as she saw who called upon her.

“Fr – Oh.” She halted her enthusiastic greeting as she caught sight of Ross. “Sir.”

“D - Miss Carne, this is my cousin, Captain Ross Poldark, lately arrived from London.” She sketched an unpolished but neat curtsey, light catching on her vivid red hair.

“Cap’n. Mr Francis has spoken of ye, Sir.” Her accent was a working-woman’s, but not quite.

“Is that so? I quite thought he had forgotten all about me!” Ross made the jest, although he was somewhat bewildered. Why had Francis brought him to see this girl? His cousin had made out as if they were to meet someone who could help with their solving of the murders.  What could some serving-wench – albeit a seemingly well-kept one – possibly have to do with three aristocratic Frenchmen?

“Cousin Ross means to help me seek out the truth about our unfortunate French guests. I believe you can offer us some aid?”

“Of course, sir. Please…” She stepped aside, and Ross followed Francis inside, still none the wiser as to what they could hope to achieve by coming here. They should be talking to the other French, and checking the woods where d’Aubigné was found, not wasting time!

“Ross? Miss Carne asked if you would like some tea?”

“Oh, er, yes, thank you.” He could at least affect some semblance of manners, not that politeness and decorum had been in the greatest of need these last few years.

“So, what do you have, D – Miss Carne?” Ross came to two simultaneous realisations – this young woman was some sort of informant, and that that was the second time his cousin had almost addressed her by what Ross assumed was her Christian name; and she had made the same mistake in return.

“I’m afraid I cannot help ye with the French doctor, or M. d’Aubigne -” her French pronunciation was surprisingly good “ – but the first man, de Vayssiere, was killed by a navy man.”

“A naval man?”

“Aye, a fight over a card game. John Bligh saw it – ‘is wife told me.”

“Why did Mr Bligh not report it?” She had gone to the stove to tend to her kettle, and Ross saw her brow crease at his question.

“He ‘as ‘is own ‘istory with the law. Like as not constables would ‘ave arrested ‘im for it. Whether they thought he did it or no.” Ross could not exactly argue with that – he had seen plenty of that sort of behaviour from so-called lawmen in his time.

“Would Mr Bligh speak with me? If you assured him that I did not wish to arrest him?” Francis accepted the steaming cup from her hand, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully as she passed another to Ross.

“P’raps.”

“Does he know the naval man? Or can he describe him?”

“Can’t say. But ‘e did tell his wife he saw whole thing clear.”

“And how do you know Mrs Bligh?” Ross took a sip of his tea and balked. “Ugh – what is this?”

“It’s nettle.”

“Miss Carne tends to the health of our district, along with Dr Enys.”

Ross finally took a proper look around the parlour-kitchen of the little cottage – his bemusement at their visit had made him remiss – taking in the haphazard mixture of jars and bottles on the shelves, pots of flowers on the windowsill. This woman was obviously some sort of herbalist  - that explained how she obtained her information; her clients would likely share local scandal and rumour, and be more inclined to speak to her than to a magistrate or a constable. An astute choice of informant on his cousin’s part; Ross was impressed.

In an attempt to be somewhat polite, Ross forced himself to finish the awful tea – which Francis seemed to quite enjoy – and drifted out of the conversation, which moved onto some other apparently routine matters of Francis’ business, and Miss Carne’s, although he did hear her agree to see if Mrs Bligh could persuade her husband to give a statement.

As with every other piece of information so far collected, this one simply added to the pile of questions, assuming that Miss Carne’s information was correct, of course. Who was this Naval officer? Did he kill the others, too? Why?

Actually ‘why’ might be fairly easy – a serving sailor could certainly come up with plenty of reasons to hate the French. But killing in the heat of battle was not the same as cold-blooded murder.


	6. V

“You insisted on coming, so you could at least try not to look utterly miserable about it.” At Francis’ admonishment, Ross attempted to school his features into something like a pleasant expression, and Francis chuckled. They were in the great hall at Killewarren, attending Caroline Enys’ soirée. Francis had to admit that he was a touch surprised when he learned that the party had not been cancelled, considering the recent fate of her houseguest.

“We considered calling it off, but thought perhaps it might buoy the mood of the district a little. And if there is some madman hunting the French, show him we are not to be cowed.” Dwight had confided when he visited Agatha a few days ago. Francis certainly appreciated this, and admired it. Of course, as Ross had immediately pointed out, the occasion offered other advantages. All of the French emigres were invited, along with many other important figures in the district. It was an excellent opportunity for observation.

They could certainly do with more information. Demelza had – as she ever did – turned out to be entirely reliable. She had also managed to persuade John Bligh to speak to Francis privately, confirming what his wife had related and managing to give a decent description of the naval officer. William Henshawe, the only useful man Francis had managed to recruit as a constable, had by means of some discreet enquiries, and one or two palms crossed with silver, ascertained the likely identity of this officer as one Second Lieutenant Robert Havering. Said Havering had, three days after stabbing M. de Vayssiere, departed the country on _HMS Surprise_ , and therefore could not have killed the other two Frenchmen.

_One down, two to go._

Of course, even discounting de Vayssiere from the equation did not put them much further forward. At Ross’ insistence, they had returned to the woods where d’Aubigné’s body had been found. It was raining on the night of the man’s death, and the woods were a common shortcut for locals and estate staff alike, so what he hoped to find Francis hadn’t known. He hadn’t visited the site himself, but sent two constables to look it over. He’d found himself cursing his useless men once again when Ross alighted upon still evident bloodstains on the fallen leaves.

“Here, look at these footprints.” The marks his cousin pointed at were somewhat blurred by later traffic, but Francis could see that they were deeper than the others surrounding them, and lacked a heel print.

“Someone was running.”

“Two men. You see, these are formal shoes. These here are larger – heavy boots; and they cross the others in some places.”

“So if the first lot are d’Aubigné, then he was pursued by his killer.”

“It would appear so.” With Francis in tow, Ross had followed the trails back to a clearing. This seemed to be where the pursuit began, as the deeper prints disappeared, and were obscured by a great many others, the clearing being the crossing point between three commonly used footpaths. Despite a thorough search, they found only one other thing in the clearing, a rope tied around a tree trunk, the trailing end peculiarly severed.

“It looks new. But does it have anything to do with the murder or not?” Ross had mused, examining the frayed end. They had no idea.

Now, they hoped something useful might be gained by examining the dead men’s countrymen. Subtly, of course.

“Ah! The famous Captain Poldark. How delighted I am to meet you at last!” Caroline approached, resplendent in a pristine white gown under a turquoise robe. She looked much more like her usual self than a few days earlier, and Francis admired her outward strength.

“Ross, my friend Mrs Caroline Enys, you know her husband, I believe.” Dwight had followed her.

“Hello, old friend. I am glad to see you looking well.”

“Considering Dwight mended your face, it seems to me you have been a most neglectful correspondent!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ross shift awkwardly from foot to foot and hoped his cousin would not take Caroline’s words the wrong way. She loved to tease, always without malice, but Ross did not know her as he did.

“Yes, Mrs Enys, I believe I have. I shall beg your husband’s forgiveness forthwith.” It seemed Ross had taken her admonishment in the spirit it was intended, and whatever slight tension there may have been had vanished. Until, that is, the voice of a servant announced the party’s newest arrivals.

“Mr and Mrs George Warleggan!”

Oh no.

~

“You can make a report to the Admiralty, but whether they will take action is another matter.”

“Bligh agreed to speak to me, but I do not think he would agree to appear in court, so I could offer little evidence against the Lieutenant.”

“Well,” George took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “Considering the current conditions at sea, I doubt you could inflict more severe punishment upon him. The _Surprise_ heads for the Southern Americas- dangerous waters, and not merely because of the French.”

“How do you know that?” Francis frowned. He had never known George to be especially interested in military matters, and besides, surely the movements of His Majesty’s fleet were secret?

“Oh, the Admiralty has agreed to share certain information with shipping companies, so far as is necessary to safeguard what trade we are able to conduct. I trust, of course, your own discretion.”

“Oh. Of course.”  

“If you’ll excuse me, I must find Elizabeth. See how much money she has lost us at cards.”

“You mean how much she has enriched you, surely?!” Elizabeth’s skill at cards was significant, and more than a few ladies and gentlemen of the district had emptied their coin purses for her over the years, although she would rarely accept more than a guinea or two.  

“Well,” George replied, amused, “there _is_ always a first time for everything.”

Francis spent the next short while mingling, exchanging general chat with the other guests. It would not do to question anyone too closely, for fear of offending them. Besides, his French was not really up to anything more than small talk. Ross’ was better, so he eventually set off in search of his cousin, catching his voice through a doorway.

“Oh. Good evening.” The odd note in Ross’ voice didn’t register with Francis until he heard the replying voice, at which he darted back out of sight.

“Good evening, Ross.” It was Elizabeth. Francis did not know what to do. He had no especial desire to eavesdrop on what would undoubtedly be a difficult moment. However, he also wondered if it might not be best to stay close by so he could strategically interrupt if necessary. Awkwardly, he lingered as Elizabeth continued. “You look well.”

“As do you Mrs Warleggan.” Francis winced at the slight sneer in Ross’ voice, but Elizabeth either did not notice or elected to ignore it. He suspected the latter – Elizabeth was far from imperceptive.

“I am glad to see you back.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. Why should I not be? I know how your family have missed you. And considering I once believed you dead…”

“You did not seem to mourn me for long.”

“Oh, Ross! Must we do this? After all these years?” Silence. That was something about Ross which had not changed evidently. His sullen stubbornness had always annoyed Francis, and apparently it irritated Elizabeth also, considering her tone as she continued. “I was devastated when I was told you had been killed. But I was barely nineteen years old. What would you have had me do? Spend the rest of my life in mourning? A life of spinsterhood and bitterness? Perhaps you think it wrong of me, but I could not live without love.”

“And you found it with a man you knew I disliked.”

“Forgive me, Ross, but your feelings about him were never mine.”

“Hm. Evidently.”

“Oh, Ross, can we not be friends now? Could we not have been then? So many years have passed. Surely you have not spent them in anger and resentment?” Francis would not be at all surprised if that was exactly what Ross had done. “Besides, we were both so very young when you proposed to me. I was just a girl, and you barely a man. Did you have any real notion of love? I do not believe I did.”

“Hmph.” That was probably as close to an acknowledgement that she was right that Elizabeth would get, and Francis decided now was the appropriate moment. Affecting a casual air, he stepped around the door way.

“Ah, Ross! Elizabeth! Here you are!”


	7. VI

Ross took a deep breath as he broke the surface of the water, shaking his head to clear his eyes. Pushing wet hair back off his face, he swam further out with a slow stroke. There was still a chill to the water this time of year, but it only added to the sense of refreshment Ross felt. How he had loved sea-bathing as a young man – running down to the beach on bright early mornings to plunge into the clear, cool water. Smooth, wet sand under his feet, fresh salty air in his lungs. The London bath houses he frequented were pleasant enough in their own way but nothing compared to this.

Back here, he realised just how used he had become to the city and its filth and stink. The fresh air of Cornwall was almost overwhelming, along with the open spaces, not to mention the quiet. He sat up at night in his room at Trenwith listening to…nothing. Nothing but the occasional hoot of an owl, and the rustle of the wind through the trees. It was never peaceful in the city – drunks shouting and brawling, prostitutes and pedlars hawking their wares, carts and carriages rattling back and forth at all hours.

He stopped and floated gently on the water for a while. The weather had improved and the sky was clear, a few whisps of cloud drifting gently by. Tiny waves lapped around him as two seagulls wheeled overhead, looking for fish no doubt. His environment may be tranquil, but Ross’ mind was not.

Pretence to indifference had long since been abandoned regarding the murdered Frenchmen. The case had ensnared him and it would not let him go until he had resolved it to his satisfaction. _Like a hound at the scent_ , Blackstone often said, not entirely inaccurately, so much as Ross did not like to admit it. The thought of his colleague, as well as London, niggled him. He had sent a message back to Bow Street , claiming that family matters detained him in Cornwall for longer than he had envisaged. This was not entirely a lie – Agatha’s illness was not improving, and as much as they did not truly wish to acknowledge it, all in the family knew she was fading – but being home had raised some complicated emotions in him.

Seeing Elizabeth had redoubled that. He felt frozen to the spot as she walked down that hallway toward him, radiant in her white gown and golden robe; no longer the girl he remembered, but a beautiful, assured woman. She glowed with health and happiness – her wide, gentle smile and soft, warm eyes had not changed. It was obvious she did not lie when she said she was pleased to see him, but he could tell her feelings for him were not the same as they once were.

As if he had not been a fool to expect them to be. It pained him, but she was right about them. His misery and heartbreak at what he had chosen to regard as her betrayal had consumed him for a long time, but in truth he had not thought of her quite so much for many years. Disappointment and grief had simply been excuses for his shiftless life, something he knew had been slowly dawning on him for a while.

Thinking of Elizabeth brought him back to the case again. After Francis chanced upon them – although Ross suspected not entirely by accident – Ross had taken the opportunity to ask Elizabeth what she knew of the French emigres. Her French had always been excellent, and he had been right to assume that she had therefore spoken with many of them.

“I have not been out much lately,” she had explained – and he had to admit it was still something of a blow to learn that she had five children; he had once upon a time dreamed of what his children with her might look like, although it was rather more that it emphasised once again how long he had been gone.

Dr du Pas had attended on her once or twice during her pregnancy, and she could account for no reason why anyone should wish him ill. M d’Aubigné she had not known especially well, but again had no notion as to a motive for his murder.

“He was a little…grand. Rather pompous, which I imagine came from his time with the royal retinue. I think he rather considered most other people beneath him. “ She pursed her lips in disapproval. “He also spoke very often and very openly of his hatred for the revolutionaries and the French republic. They have their sympathisers in this country, of course, but none that d’Aubigné would have been much in company with.”

Ross was impressed with her frankness, and her thoughtfulness. She had been a great help, too, in speaking to the other emigres. His own French was not bad – better than Francis’ – but Elizabeth’s was flawless.

Not that the other foreigners had actually offered much information – the usual mix of gossip, wild speculation and self-interest which generally greeted any crime, particularly those committed amongst the gentry. Many were genuine in their desire to help, but knew very little. Several had been patients of du Pas, and most knew de Vayssiere as a gambler and womaniser, but both seemed to have been generally well-liked. Elizabeth was also not alone in her assessment of d’Aubigné.

Having encountered quite a few in London, Ross had found French aristocrats rather like English ones – religion and dislike of English food, fashions and customs aside, of course. Those resident in Cornwall were no different – the snobby, gossipy Madame de Voyer;  pretty young Comtesse de la Chatre, who was clearly and understandably very upset about the whole matter; the foppish macaroni M. de Dreux and his sycophantic associate M. Leféron; a wine-soaked priest, Pére Cornet. A M. de Cygne, who had arrived from London only a few weeks previously and therefore knew nothing at all, bothered Ross for some reason. He suspected it was because the man’s rather bulldog-like countenance and gruff manner reminded him of his late Uncle Charles.

Back on the sand at last, he dried himself roughly, pondering the facts. It seemed de Vayssiere’s death was simply a coincidence – a fatal scuffle, like the dozens which happened every night in the city. Ross had examined the unofficial statement taken by Francis from the man Bligh and could find no issue with it. But as he and Francis had discussed over a night cap, identifying de Vayssiere’s killer did not actually help much. There were still two others to find, and not much with which to find them.

~

He was greeted by an enthusiastic Verity upon his return to Trenwith after a leisurely ride along the cliffs. She ushered him into the sitting room to find a tall, handsome young man in naval uniform.

“Ross, this is my step-son, Lieutenant James Blamey. James, my cousin Ross.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Sir. Step-mama has spoken of you often.” He regarded Verity with obvious affection and it truly pleased Ross to see it. He had been genuinely delighted to learn that Verity had married and had a family of her own, although reading between the lines of her letters had told him it had not been quite straightforward. She had come to Trenwith alone, leaving her family in Falmouth, and he was sure she must be missing them.

“James came to surprise me!” Verity beamed.

“My superiors charged me with a letter to Truro, and were kind enough to allow me a detour.”

He had even been given permission to stay overnight, which struck Ross as unusually generous, but then again he was not a Naval man. Perhaps they were more indulgent masters. James had obviously visited Trenwith before, greeting his step-uncle with fondness when Francis returned from a morning at Grambler. Even Agatha seemed to like the boy, having been helped from her rooms into her chair by the fire in honour of his visit. He let her win several games of cards in a row, delighting the old woman.

Francis retreated to his study to take care of some estate paperwork and so Ross spent an idle afternoon of chat, tea and cards with his relatives, which frankly made him rather discomfited. He was truly happy to see Verity and Agatha so animated, but the pleasant scene was one of many, many things which filled him with guilt over his years of neglect of his family. Furthermore, he had never been at ease with such lack of activity, especially when there were killers to be caught! He would much rather be doing something, but he could not actually think of what to do. With James visiting, he would not get time alone with Francis after dinner. He had been hoping to ask if Francis or his constables had any other informants they could consult.

Agatha dined in her rooms, and Verity excused herself to sit with her before bed shortly after. The two Poldark men were therefore left alone with young James. Ross expected an at least pleasant evening of chat and port, but realised that he might be wrong when he watched how carefully James made sure his step-mother was definitely gone.

“Gentlemen, I must confess that I have not been truthful with you. Nor with my dear step-mama, much to my grief.” He sat in the chair opposite Francis, expression very serious. “I was in fact sent here by my senior officers to speak especially with you both. They considered me best placed for the task, considering my family connection.”

“Forgive me, but you say the Admiralty wishes you to speak with _us_?” Ross asked.

“Yes. About the matter you are both interested in. The unfortunate Dr du Pas and M. d’Aubigné. We know you have been looking into their deaths, as is your right as Magistrate, of course, Uncle, and only natural considering your occupation, Captain.” It did not surprise Ross that James knew he was a Bow Street man. Even if the fact had not managed to make its way into the news-sheets, the Admiralty were generally well-informed, in his experience.  

“And what of it?” Francis asked, frowning over the rim of his port glass.

“We would like to politely ask you to stop.”

“Stop?”

“Yes. You see, you could well jeopardise some very important work of our own…which I am not at liberty to disclose.” He hurried to anticipate their natural question. Ross frowned, but Francis beat him to his objection.

“Now, see here, James. If your superiors believe that our ‘family connection’ means I will be quite happy for you to just walk in here and tell me how to conduct my business they have got another think coming.  It merely means that whatever objections I have will be rather more polite than otherwise!” James looked utterly taken aback by this response, and Ross was torn between amusement and feeling something quite similar.

“But, Uncle – “

“Don’t ‘But, Uncle –‘ me, young man. I don’t answer to your admirals and commodores, no matter what they might like to think. I act under the same authority as they do – the King’s, and for the same purpose, the security of this Realm. They may fancy their work is of greater import than mine, but if the country is to be overrun with thieves and murderers, what is the point in fighting a war for it?” Ross was once again struck by the change in his cousin – from the nervous, highly-strung young man he remembered, to this confidant, self-assured figure who could have a naval lieutenant squirming in his chair. “So, if your masters want to convince me to stop my investigation into these heinous crimes, they had better be prepared to offer a damn good reason for it.”

“I – “

“Oh, come now, James. You know he is not going to let you wriggle off the hook. And, if your senior officers are as well informed about me as you seem to wish to indicate, they should know full well I’m not to be easily commanded.” Indeed, Ross thought wryly, the Admiralty would not need to look hard to discover that.

“Oh, very well.” James sighed. “We were warned this would not be easy. The fact of the matter is, there is a French spy operating in this district. Reporting upon the movement of ships at port, as well as our civil defences, amongst other things.”

“You have proof of this?” Francis demanded. Ross saw his cousin’s grip on his empty glass tighten. He could understand Francis’ agitation – the idea that an enemy agent operated here without his knowledge had to be a disturbing one.

“Yes. There are things I cannot disclose – on pain of court-martial! – but British agents abroad intercepted messages to the French command containing secret information. One of our people was able to insert themselves into the line of communication, making sure accurate information was not passed on, but allowing us to trace back to the source. However, something of a wall was hit after we found how the messages were taken across the channel.”

“In short, you do not know the identity of the spy.” Ross raised his eyebrows at the young man, who looked abashed.

“No. We believe there is also an intermediary we have not identified. Our agent in the district believes that his group is close to finding them – and we have no reason to doubt that – but we fear that your investigation may cause the spies to flee before they can be apprehended.”

“….Which is why you ask us to cease and desist.”

“Yes. Please.” It was a rather pathetic plea after all that, but James had evidently not been expecting the resistance his uncle was prepared to put up. Francis sighed.

“Very well.” James’ relief was palpable.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle. The Admiralty will be most appreciative of your co-operation. Now, er, perhaps I should retire. I did have a long ride this morning, and I have another tomorrow.”

“James…” Francis called him back as he was about to depart. “Please do not consider any of this personal.”

“I do not, Uncle. I wish that I had not had to bring such things into the family. Good night.” With a sketch of a bow, the young man withdrew. The two Poldark cousins sat in silence for a moment. No doubt, Ross thought, Francis was doing as he was, and absorbing what had just happened. Eventually, Ross voiced his most immediate thought.

“You are going to just give up the search for these murderers?” Ross asked. Francis turned in his chair to look at him incredulously.

“What on Earth do you take me for?”  


	8. VII

“I don’t recall this place.” Truro had not changed a great deal in the decade or so Ross had been away from it – Perrin the drapers, Sharrow the bookseller, The Red Lion Inn, all familiar from his youth. Not this establishment – although that was rather too grand a word for it –  the grimy, flaking sign over the small shop front proclaiming it as ‘R. F. Moreton, Licensed Pawnbroker’.

“Much cause to visit a pawnbroker in your youth, cousin?” Francis asked with the raise of an eyebrow, before laughing. “As much as it may not look it, Mr Moreton only set up shop here a half a dozen years ago. Come from Coventry, out of their sight of _their_ law-men.”

“A fence?”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed their companion. William Henshawe Sr had been an acquaintance and sometime business associate of Ross’ father, but the eldest son had evidently chosen a different path. Francis described the man as the only truly useful constable he had been able to recruit. A solid, dependable-looking man with quick, intelligent eyes and a calm, friendly face. “But he chooses to be occasionally useful, so we allow him a bit of leeway. A necessary evil, like.”

“Ah.” Ross was not unfamiliar with such arrangements.

“He’s remarkably honest otherwise, relatively speaking.” Francis added. “With his genuine clients.”

“You believe he has something pertaining to the French murders?”

“He claims so. Something we need to see, so he says.” The shop was not open yet, so Henshawe tugged the ratty bell pull before hammering on the door when no answer was immediately forthcoming.

“All righ’, all righ’, don’t be batterin’ a man’s door in.” A weasel-like face appeared in a murky crack between door and frame, brightening into an obsequious smile when its owner recognised his visitors. “Ah, Cons’able - and the chief magistrate hisself! What an ‘onor for an ‘umble man such a meself. And who be this fine gen’leman?”

“Captain Poldark is a Bow Street Runner, assisting us in this matter.” Francis answered, flatly, evidently unmoved by the man’s ingratiating manner.

“Oh, ‘ow very excitin!” He waved them into a dark, cramped hallway leading into an equally cramped shop, high shelves stacked haphazardly with clocks, pottery, folded cloths and all manner of other goods sold off for desperately needed money – or to hide stolen property. Moreton edged behind a counter, leaving Ross, Francis and Henshawe pressed rather uncomfortably close together on the other side.

“Well, man, show us what you have. And if you are wasting our time…” Henshawe dropped his voice menacingly, and Moreton held up his hands beseechingly.

“Jus’ a minute!” He reached under the counter, bringing up an object wrapped in a bit of ragged cloth. Laying it down, he pulled back the fabric to reveal a knife – a long, thin blade with some sort of detailed handle. With some difficulty, the three law men crowded closer, Ross ending up peering over Francis’ shoulder as his cousin bent to look more closely.

“Bring some more light, will you?” The unwashed windows let in little of what light fell onto the side street housing the shop. Moreton brought over an old brass candelabra, thankfully without further comment. With better illumination, Ross could see that it was some sort of dagger, rather like the type Ross had seen amongst the Italian tradesmen in London, what they called a _stiletto_. The handle was not wood, however.

“Is that…?”

“Mother o’ pearl, I do believe.” Moreton declared. “A very fine piece, indeed.”

“So why show it to us instead of send it along for the pretty penny it is no doubt worth?” Francis asked, and Ross concurred with his suspicious tone. A country-town Cornish pawnbroker was unlikely to come across something so valuable very often, if at all. Turning it over the magistrates was not exactly good business practice.

“Well, considerin’ how fine it is, I assumed the fella what sold it to me didn’t come about it entirely honest, like. And that folk might be lookin’ fer it, _and_ that if they were, old Moreton would be first port o’call for Mr. Henshawe ‘ere.”

“But you sent for me, Moreton.”

“I did that, sir. On account o’this.” He tilted the knife, exposing the place where the blade met the handle. Someone stood on Ross’ foot as they attempted to huddle even closer, but he barely felt it as he concentrated on the small red-brown mark at the hilt.

“Is that..?”

“Blood.”

~

“It might mean nothing. Blood on a sharp knife is hardly remarkable.”

“But an expensive knife sold off relatively cheap to a pawnbroker a short while after a murder shouldn’t be ignored.” Francis frowned, steadying himself as his horse picked its way around a puddle.

“You’re right, but if it’s just a dead end, we’ve wasted valuable time, especially if the Admiralty starts breathing down our necks again.”

“Indeed. I confess I do not like the notion that their agents have been operating here without my knowing of it. Not as much as I dislike the thought of a French spy, of course, but still.”

“You had no notion of either?”

“None whatsoever. Of course, the English agents will know how we work, how to avoid us. They could be anyone. But a French agent…I can’t shake the idea that that might have something to do with these murders.”

“I agree. Especially since there seems to be no obvious motive for du Pas or d’Aubigné’s murders.”

“Perhaps the spy killed them to cover his tracks?” Francis mused. “But Dwight says they were killed by different men. And I believe him to be right.”

“More than one spy?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

They were on their way to Killewarren to consult with Dwight about the knife, taken from a petulant Moreton, not pleased to have been rewarded for his public service with only a few coins – a fraction of the weapon’s true value.

“The price of honesty, Mr Moreton.” Francis had smiled, tucking the knife into his coat.

Moreton had been unable to given them much detail about the man who pawned it, bar a brief description of a stocky man with brown hair and a scar on the back of his hand. It was something and nothing. For fear of rousing suspicion, he could not have asked the man too many questions, especially not where he had got the knife.  

Henshawe had been despatched to find a couple of other constables and rout every informant and known lowlife they could find in an attempt to locate this person. It was long shot, but as Ross well knew, luck was a great friend to a lawman.

Dwight was thankfully at home when they arrived, Caroline looking crestfallen when told it was not a social call. She did manage to extract a promise from Francis that he and his sister would come for dinner soon, and retreated back into her sitting room looking triumphant, her little fat dog waddling behind her.  

“That woman is a force of nature.” Francis muttered as they followed a liveried footman to Dwight’s study. Ross chuckled – he hadn’t had much opportunity to meet his old friend’s wife, but he was rather impressed by her. Despite appearances, he thought that the serious, intellectual Dwight and the lively young woman were probably rather well matched.  

Dwight took the knife with interest, concurring that the stain upon it was indeed blood. He brought a mounted magnifying glass to a small table near the window and examined the weapon closely.

“Look, it’s been wiped. See the streaks here.” In better light it was indeed possible to see fine lines where someone had attempted to clean the blade.

“Could this knife have been used to kill either of our Frenchmen?” Ross asked. It annoyed him that he had not seen the bodies – he had heard Francis’ accounts, and read Dwight’s notes, but as excellent as they were, they were no substitute for his own observation. He felt at a disadvantage coming to this case so late, and he could feel a touch of excitement at the thought that this might finally, finally be a clue.

“Wait a moment.” Dwight searched through a pile of papers on his desk, returning with a sheet showing a neat drawing of what Ross realised was a knife-wound. “This was du Pas’ wound, a single strike through the back, piercing his heart. This blade is certainly long enough…and I believe it is the right shape also.”

“So, we could well have the weapon which killed du Pas…but not his killer.” Francis made a face. Ross looked back at him.

“Yet.”

Francis was pensive as they mounted their horses a short while later. Dwight had agreed to make an official report confirming that the knife was a good match for du Pas’ wounds, but also reiterated his original conclusion than an entirely different blade had been used on d’Aubigné.

“This is somewhat beyond my purview, so feel free to ignore me, but in my experience, the sort of injuries done to d’Aubigné – particularly the more… _intimate_ ones – suggest someone acting in a great rage. Stabbing a man once is one thing, doing so two dozen times and mutilating him in such a fashion is an entirely different one.”

Ross was entirely inclined to agree with the doctor, and Francis had concurred also. On their way out, Ross lingered in the doorway, wanting to say something to Dwight, make some pathetic attempt at making amends for being such a poor friend for so long.

“Dwight…I must apologise for – “ Dwight looked up from the desk he had returned to, and shook his head, smiling.

“There is nothing to apologise for, my friend. Do not concern yourself.”

Ross was not sure he could have been quite so forgiving in Dwight’s shoes, but chose to be thankful for his friend’s good grace.

Turning out of Killewarren’s sweeping driveway, Ross was about to suggest they track down Henshawe and see if he had made any progress even in the relatively short time since they left him, when they were hailed by a call from behind them.

“Sirs! Sirs!” A young man came running up the road from the direction of Trenwith and Nampara; he skidded to a halt next to their horses, breathing heavily. It took him a few attempts to speak further, in the meantime thrusting a note into Francis’ hand. “Miss Demelza asks you come, sirs. She – hoo! – she says do ‘ave summin’ important for ye. Ugh.”

The young man gratefully accepted a few coins from Francis in reward for his message, as well as being ushered to Killewarren’s stable-yard, where the horsemaster agreed to give him some ale and let him sit a while. Ross and Francis immediately thereafter set off to find Demelza – who was one and the same as the Miss Carne Ross had been introduced to a few days earlier – following her instructions to meet her at a cottage in Sawle.

They found her sitting outside the little house, sharing a rugged wooden bench with another young woman – a pretty, soft-featured blonde who looked vaguely familiar to Ross.

“Mr Poldark, Captain, this is Emma Tregirls.”

“Tregirls?” Ross knew her instantly. “Tholly’s daughter?”

“Aye, sir.” Emma smiled. Tholly had been an employee of Ross’ father many years ago – a complete rogue by any stretch of the imagination, but a loyal servant. Tholly had never married Emma’s mother so far as Ross knew, but Ross had met the girl a few times when she was just a child.

“How is your father?”

“Dead, sir. Drowned.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Both Emma and Demela had made disapproving faces at her words, so Ross surmised that whatever Tholly had been doing at the time of his death it had not been legal. Still, it was a sad end for a man Ross remembered with fondness.

“Your message, Demelza?” Francis hadn’t bothered with addressing her formally, and Ross took note of the familiar, almost intimate, way they looked at each other. Now was not the time to consider that further, however.

“It is Emma who wishes to speak to ye. She do serve at the kiddly, and overheard somethin’ I think may be very important.”

“Aye, Sirs.” Emma frowned a little, as if gathering her thoughts. “A man were in last night, payin’ for folks’ beer and drinkin’ hisself merry, boastin’ about ‘ow ‘e ‘ad ‘made ‘is fortune’ and the like. ‘Twould have thought nothin’ of it – a good night at card table or cock-fight and every man’s King Midas! – but when ‘e did come to pay he did give me a silver coin, and said ‘Ave some o’ that French bounty, me darlin’.”

“Do you still have the coin?” Francis asked. Ross had felt him go tense next to him at Emma’s words, and knew he shared his sense of excitement. This could be even more significant than the knife.

“No, sir. I ‘ad to turn it over to old Roger – he do own t’kiddly, and would ‘ave known if there were money missing – but I did ‘ide it when the man handed it over, so as no one else would see it.” Ross was impressed with her foresight – if anyone else in that ale-house had seen the coin, the man who handed it over could well have set himself up for a robbery, at the very least. He could have done it with his boasting alone.

“Do you know this man’s name? Or can you describe him?”

“No name. But ‘e were biggish man, although not fat like. Dark ‘air, scruffy. And he did have a scar on the back of ‘is hand.”


	9. VIII

The note had come to George’s office at about four o’clock, and he had to admit to being surprised by it. Francis, Ross and the constables had arrested a man for the murder of M. d’Aubigné. This man had apparently admitted taking an expensive knife from the scene of d’Aubigné’s murder, as well as a bag of French coins from the man’s body.

“So, d’Aubigné was robbed?” Elizabeth asked later, after he had relayed the information. They sat in their private sitting room after dinner, where they knew they would not be disturbed. George trusted most of his servants implicitly, but it was never for the best to discuss such things too openly. Not in front of the children, certainly – and not merely because such things were not suitable for young ears. Valentine and Ursula were both highly inquisitive and intelligent, not quite old enough to fully understand, but old enough to take in just enough that they could be liable to repeat things best not repeated.

“It appears so.”

“But did you not say that his injuries were very vicious?” George frowned at the remembrance. He did not consider himself especially sensitive, but he had rarely seen anything so unpleasant. The exact details he had not shared with Elizabeth – she was by no means delicate, but there were certain things people did not need to hear.

“Yes, which seems excessive for a thief.”

“And Francis said it was not a robbery originally, didn’t he?”

“M. d’Aubigné’s pocket-book was found in his room afterwards. With little inside.”

“So, where did all of the money come from? And in French coin? Had he deposited any with the Bank?”

“No. I went back and checked the ledgers today just to make sure.”

“So…”

“So it is all but confirmed, I think.”

“Then, you must tell Francis. It is surely imperative now.” George sighed. He knew Elizabeth was right. It had long pained him to keep things from his closest friend, especially when Francis was so open with him.

“Yes, but I must wait until we are sure. Furthermore, even if I tell what I know, it still leaves many unanswered questions. Du Pas, for one.”

“It is a great puzzle.” Elizabeth took a sip of her sherry. “One which I am afraid I must add to.”

“Oh, yes?” George had noticed that Elizabeth seemed a little distracted over dinner.

“I took Valentine and Ursula for a walk in the grounds today, and I met Caroline and Séraphine out riding.” Séraphine – the young Comtesse de la Chatre – was one of the Enys’ guests at Killewarren. At only sixteen, she had been smuggled out of France by loyal servants of her family – none of whom she had ever seen since. Tragically, it was highly likely they were all dead, or at the very least imprisoned. Now just eighteen, she had become close to both Caroline and Elizabeth, and often visited Elizabeth at Cusgarne, spending quite some time keeping her company throughout her recent confinement. The Comtesse was a sweet girl, and George admired her strength and gentility in the face of the tragedy she had suffered.

“Oh, yes?”

“We spoke for a while, but when they rode away, Séraphine held back, and she said that we must speak privately, and she would call on Wednesday. She was very agitated.”

“Agitated?”

“ Yes. She also said – she said she believed there was an imposter amongst us. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but Caroline called for her and she rode away.”

“You are sure that is what she said? An imposter?”

“Yes, absolutely. _Imposteur_.” Elizabeth looked puzzled, and George imagined his expression matched hers.

“What could she have meant by that? What sort of imposter?”

“I have no idea – I suppose I shall find out.”

“Indeed.”

“She seemed nervous when Ross, Francis and I spoke to her at the dinner party, but I assumed she was merely disturbed by what had happened to d’Aubigné.”

“Perhaps it is to do with d’Aubigné.”

“I cannot imagine how.” Elizabeth frowned into her glass. “Not after his death.”

“No.” George tutted. “Everything that happens seems only to throw up more questions and not answers. The more we try to unravel the threads, the more tangled they become.”

“Well, we should have a definitive answer to one question soon.”

“Yes. Very soon.”

~

“Papa!” George turned to see Ursula running across the gardens towards him, her little dress flying out behind her. Catching up to him, she took a firm hold of his coat. “Where are you going?”

“To the stables, my pet.”

“Can I come? To see the horses?” Ursula had inherited her mother’s love of the outdoors, happily accompanying her on walks in the gardens, and out to pick flowers. She was very fond of animals as well, especially dogs and horses, and extremely put out that she was not yet allowed to ride while her elder brother was. She looked up at George pleadingly, brown eyes identical to her mother’s. Even if he had been inclined to refuse her, it was terribly hard to do so. He bent to pick her up, her arms –warmly encased in a jacket Elizabeth or a nurse had no doubt struggled to get her into – wrapping around his neck.

“Oh, very well.”

While George dealt with his business with the horse master, one of the stable boys helped Ursula to feed a young foal.

“Little one has not been named yet, Sir. P’raps young mistress would like the honour?”

She most certainly would, and it took Ursula some time to decide, changing her mind several times before settling upon ‘Butterfly’.

“Perhaps,” said George, lifting his little girl into his arms again, “when she is grown up, you will be big enough to ride?”

“Really?”

“Yes.” The sheer happiness on her face was everything. Before leaving, he stopped a moment to see his own favoured mount, Mab. Ursula gently patted her nose as the beast snorted contentedly in her stall. George was about to turn back to the house – since he had a rare day at home, Elizabeth had insisted they have tea together as a family, and he had no intention of disappointing her – when he noticed the occupant of the opposite stall. A fine-looking Cleveland Bay with a light mane, it was not one of theirs, unless it had been acquired without his knowledge.

“Freddy,” he called over one of the most senior stable-boys, soon to be a groom, “where did that horse come from?”

“Oh, did Mr Barnett not say, Sir? He must have forgot. Daniel found her wandering t’other day, near the woods, covered in mud. She wasn’t hurt, so we jus’ cleaned her up and we’ve been feeding her. Mr Barnett meant to ask what you wanted done wi’ her.”

“When did you say she was found? Exactly?”

“Um, I believe ‘twas morning after that French fella was – “ He cut himself off, glancing at Ursula. “If you know what I mean, Sir.”  

“I do. Thank you, Freddy. Tell Mr Barnett just to keep looking after her for now.”

“Will do.” The young man carried on about his business, and George went back to the house, his mind turning over yet another question.

Ursula was full of her visit to the stables, regaling her mama and older brother with the details over tea.

“’Butterfly’? What a pretty name, my love.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Why did Ursula get to name the foal?” Valentine frowned.

“You named your horse, remember? Fitzgerald?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“What’s the new horse called, Papa?” Ursula asked before taking a big bite of ginger snap, dropping crumbs down her frock. Elizabeth tutted affectionately, and then frowned when she took in Ursula’s question.

“New horse?”

“It is not our horse, my dear. One of the stable boys found her wandering a few days ago.”

“A few days?” George couldn’t help but smile at the working of Elizabeth’s quick mind.

“Yes.” He glanced to the children, indicating they would speak later, and Elizabeth nodded.

“Now, Valentine, why don’t you tell Papa about your lessons?” Valentine was certainly delighted to share what he had learned, and George listened proudly.

After tea, they sat in the parlour for a while, Ursula and Valentine playing on the hearth rug, Nicholas sleeping in his cradle, and the twins sat between their parents on the sofa – Susannah watching Elizabeth sew, the needle kept carefully out of her reach, and Clare leaning against George’s side as he perused some routine papers from the Bank. It was a peaceful scene, and George knew he should be content, but his mind was not on his paperwork. It was trying to make some sense of everything: d’Aubigné , du Pas, the knife, the money, the thief, the horse…He felt as if there was something just out of reach, something his mind could not quite grasp. From the way Elizabeth kept unpicking her stitches, and pausing with her needle stuck in the fabric, he knew she was likely similarly absorbed.

The door opened, admitting a housemaid, Polly.

“Sir, Madam, there is a lady here who wishes to speak with you. Mistress Vosper.”

“Margaret?” Elizabeth and George shared a glance.

“I showed her to your study, Sir.”

“Thank you, Polly. Will you stay with the children for a few moments, please?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Margaret Vosper awaited them in George’s study, looking both serious and triumphant. She had a letter folded in her gloved hands.

“It is confirmed, at last.” She handed George the note. “Nothing. We have him.”

~

“You are distracted, my dear.” Elizabeth smiled at him over her tea cup at the breakfast table the following morning. “You have still not decided?”

In light of Margaret’s visit – and the information she brought – George and Elizabeth had sat up most of the night in deep discussion. On the one hand, they had the answer to an important question, on the other, it created yet other questions and brought into sharp focus as dilemma he had been continually putting off resolving.

“You must take Francis into your confidence now.” Elizabeth had insisted as they readied for bed. “Ross, too, perhaps.”

“Ross?”

“Well, he is as deeply involved now as anyone. I cannot claim to know him as I once did, but Francis would not have invited him in if he did not still believe him trustworthy, family affection or no.”

“You are right – as you always are. To tell all to Francis is surely the only correct course, and yet still I find myself hesitant.”

“Considering what we now know…” She glanced up at him in her dresser mirror, understanding dawning on her lovely face. “You are concerned for his reaction.”

“I have deceived him, my truest friend, save yourself…Oh! It is foolish, I know. Sentimental, as Cary would say.”

Elizabeth had wrinkled her nose at his mention of his uncle, his only living Warleggan relative, temporarily lightening George’s mood. Cary had never particularly approved of George’s choice of a wife, considering the Chynoweth family, although an ancient one, to be insufficiently rich or influential to provide an advantageous match. But as it was neither her name nor her fortune which made Elizabeth desirable so far as George was concerned,  he had ignore his uncle’s objections. Cary had not softened much in the years since, nor done a great deal to earn the favour of his niece-in-law.

“Well, so much as it pains me to say this, my love, in this matter I believe Cary and I would be in agreement.  Sentiment must be put aside, for the overall good.”

“My uncle has _never_ been concerned with the overall good.”

He smiled as he recalled the conversation, draining his own tea. It was time to set off for the Bank. The decision would have to wait, but he could not put off the inevitable. He took his leave with a kiss to Elizabeth’s cheek, but as he collected his hat in the front hallway, there was an insistent knocking on the door. It was far quicker to answer himself than wait for a footman. An agitated-looking messenger was on the other side, and he thrust a folded paper into George’s hand.

Elizabeth arrived as he read – attracted by the noise of the visitor. She had to speak to him more than once before he answered her, so startled and unnerved by the contents of the note was he.

“George?…George? What is it?”

“Oh, it – It appears my decision has been made for me. I am afraid that someone else has been killed. Murdered.”

“Oh, no. Who?”

“I am sorry, my love, but it the Comtesse – Séraphine.”


	10. IX

“Spratt continues to insist he is no murderer.” Ross shifted in his chair. “And I believe him.”  

Ezekial Spratt was career petty larcenist who had somehow managed to never be brought up in front of Francis, but whose description was thankfully instantly recognisable to the ever reliable Henshawe. Spratt took a little tracking down, but was eventually dragged out of a bawdy-house where he had been using his newly-acquired wealth to entertain himself like a king. According to the constables – who may have generally lacked wits but did at least possess muscle – extracting Spratt had been a sight easier than prying the silver coins out of the hands of the house’s madam, although the threat of an appearance at the next Assizes had ultimately proven effective.  

Faced with the inside of Truro jail, as well as interrogation by Francis, Ross and Henshawe, Spratt instantly admitted to finding the knife in the clearing, and robbing d’Aubigné’s body of his purse, but swore by every version of God he could imagine – as well as on his mother’s grave – that he had not killed the man. Although Henshawe had warned that Spratt was an habitual liar, Francis found himself inclined to believe the man.  

Spratt was clearly an unscrupulous worm, but he was no killer. Especially not one who would mutilate their victim in such horrific and intimate fashion.    

 “I agree with you, cousin. “ Francis sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. They had been up most of the night questioning Spratt. “So, considering where Spratt found it, the knife seems to belong to d’Aubigné. Or his killer.”  

“It had to be d’Aubigné. A different knife was used by his killer. D’Aubigné must have taken the knife to defend himself but was disarmed somehow. The fine craftsmanship of the weapon is certainly fitting to someone of d’Aubigné’s former wealth.”  

“But if it _is_ d’Aubigné’s, then he likely killed du Pas. For what reason we don’t know.” 

“Some of this must have something to do with this French spy your nephew told us about.” Ross frowned, obviously feeling as frustrated as Francis.

 “But who is the spy? Did d’Aubigné kill du Pas for being the spy, and was then killed by some compatriot of du Pas’? Or was d’Aubigné the spy? If so, who killed him? Or were they both killed by the spy? If so, why so differently? Oh Lord, but this is a quagmire!”  

“As to the spy – have you truly had no hints from your own informant? Not even the Carne girl?”

 “Oh, there have been rumours of French collaborators for years, but they were always just wild speculation and gossip. Whoever the spy is, they have been careful, and the Admiralty’s agents equally so in concealing their enquiries.” Francis had not missed the odd intonation in Ross’ voice when he asked about Demelza – it had not been an entirely casual question. Ross had evidently deduced some part of the true nature of his relationship with Demelza. She was not just a tenant of the land he cared for, nor merely an informant – she was so much more. But now was no time to dwell on his difficult situation with her – aside from the fact that it was yet another impossible conundrum. He chose to ignore Ross’ rather unsubtle probing. “If d’Aubigné went out into the woods with a knife and a purse full of coins, he must have been meeting someone for some purpose or another. Blackmail, perhaps.”  

“On his part or the other’s?” Ross gave a mirthless laugh at Francis’ frustrated sigh. “Yes, cousin. I too feel as if I am continually banging my head against a wall.”

 That was when Henshawe burst into the room. 

~ 

It was a very severe Dwight, and a very pale Caroline, who met them in the entrance hall at Killewarren. 

“It is the Comtesse?” Francis asked, although Henshawe had already told him. He supposed he could not quite believe it. Dwight nodded grimly, and Caroline let out a tiny sob, gripping her husband’s arm tightly. She had obviously been crying already, and Francis felt badly for her. Through the doorway into the parlour, he could see the poor remaining souls of the household – Madame de Voyer, and the MM. de Dreux and Leféron.  They sat silent and solemn, huddled close together by an unlit fireplace.

_I must end this_ , Francis thought. End these people’s terror. They came here to escape a horrific death, but have been met with brutality and violence nevertheless.

 “Yes, it is. I have confirmed it.” 

“Where was she found?” Ross demanded. Dwight glanced at Caroline, clearly not wishing to speak more in front of her. A clearly astute maid gently placed her hand on her mistress’ arm.  

“Come, mistress. Come and sit down, let the master and Mr Francis look after the Comtesse now.” Caroline let herself be led away. Francis admired how much she had striven to so far put a brave face on things for the sake of her guests, but the death of the young girl he knew she had become close to had clearly hit her very hard. It was not merely for the sake of the French that this terrible situation had to be resolved. Once certain his wife was taken care of, Dwight turned back to them. 

“In the gardens, out beside the rockeries. She often walked there in the mornings.”  

“Who found her?” Francis dearly hoped it had not been Caroline. 

“One of the groundsmen. He’s downstairs with a glass of brandy.”  

“Let us speak to him first.”  

David Rowe was a broad, rugged-featured man somewhere in his thirties. His powerful build marked him out as a physical labourer, and might have ordinarily made him somewhat intimidating. Now, he slumped on a stool at the scrubbed kitchen table, staring blankly down at the glass he held in a shaking hand. 

“David.” Dwight spoke to him quite gently, as if he were a nervous patient. “This is Mr Francis Poldark, and Captain Poldark. They are here about the Comtesse.”  

“That poor girl.” The big man’s voice was very small and quiet. “Lyin’ there like…Such a sweet thing she was, no airs and graces, despite who she were. Smile at us all while she walked through t’gardens.”  

“Mr Rowe, why were you in the gardens this morning?” Unless he was an extraordinarily good actor, David Rowe had not killed the Comtesse, but Ross’ question still had to be asked. It took Rowe a moment to absorb it, and his head snapped towards them.  

“I din’t do it! I could never!”  

“They didn’t say you did, David.” Dwight soothed. “Just tell them what you told me.”  

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The man took a deep breath, gathering himself. “I were comin’ back from Tehidy. My sister be a cook there and I went t’ visit yesterday. Spent afternoon helpin’ some of the men tryin’ to fix the water pump in the yard – ‘tis blocked so it seems…Anyhow, I stayed night in my sister’s cottage and I were walkin’ back this morn’. Took shortcut through gardens as I were later comin’ than I intended. I came round end of hedge and….and…” “You found her.” Francis finished.  “Aye. Her ‘ead were…Oh, Lord, I never seen such a terrible thing.” And with that, he put his head in his big, rough hands and sobbed.  

Dwight led them back to the same room where, just a few days ago, M. d’Aubigné had been brought. At first appearance, the Comtesse showed no such signs of violence as he had. Someone had covered her with a sheet, which Dwight gently removed. She lay on her back, hands neatly at her sides, eyes closed. Her hair was disordered, and her pale yellow skirts were filthy – not just at the hem, which might have been expected from a walk, but all up the front to her knees.  

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.” Dwight took a firm hold of the young woman and turned her on to her side. Francis took a moment to realise that the horrified gasp he heard had come from himself, while he felt Ross stiffen beside him. The back of the Comtesse’s head had been caved in, blood and gore matted into her pale brown hair. 

“Dear God in Heaven.” The groundsman’s horror suddenly made perfect sense. D’Aubigné’s injuries had been terrible, Lord knew, but this…Dwight lay her back down, even his face ashen. With equal tenderness, he lifted both her arms to show a multitude of cuts and scratches on their undersides.

 “Likely caused by her falling onto the gravel path.” 

“What – What was used?” Francis asked, fighting to steady his voice. Dwight stepped to the side to indicate a heavy stone on the bench behind him. It was covered in blood.

“Her hair is stuck to the blood, also. It is from the rockery, there are a dozen others like it.” Carefully, Dwight covered her up again. “I will prepare a thorough report as always, but if you don’t mind, I should like to go back to my wife.”  

“Of course, Dwight. Thank you.” Ross patted his friend gratefully on the back as he passed, and both Poldarks watched him disappear down the corridor in silence.  

“We must catch this monster.” Francis spoke first after Dwight had disappeared up the servant’s stairs to the main house.  

“You think it is the same man who killed d’Aubigné?”  

“Do you not?” 

“I do. For the pure savagery of it. But, why her?”  

“Why any of them? Why any of this?” Francis slammed his hand against the wall in frustration. “I have been stumbling around in the dark like a fool, and now that poor girl is dead!”

 “I feel your frustration, Francis, believe me, but there is nothing we could have done. We have had nothing to go on. We still have nothing.”  

George and Elizabeth Warleggan were arriving when they eventually came back upstairs, perhaps sent for in the hope that Elizabeth could provide some comfort to her friend. Elizabeth also looked shaken – she too had been close to the young Frenchwoman, Francis knew. After greeting them briefly, she hurried into the parlour.  

“Caroline, my dear.”  

“Oh, Elizabeth, it is too dreadful.” As the maid closed the door, Francis caught a glimpse of Elizabeth embracing Caroline, who had begun to cry again.  

“This is a terrible business.” George was frowning in the direction his wife had gone, from whence the sound of Caroline’s weeping, and the murmur of Elizabeth and Dwight’s voices, could still be heard. “That poor girl.” 

“Terrible, indeed. But, if you will excuse us, George – “ Francis would have perhaps liked to discuss this newest development with his friend. George had a quick, analytical mind, born of years of being buried in accounts books, and his input had helped Francis with several cases. However, Ross was here now, and he had much more experience with this type of crime. Besides, he could not share the confidential information James Blamey had provided them about the French spy. 

“Actually, Francis, there is something I must tell you. Regarding Séraphine – the Comtesse.” Both Ross and Francis had been making to leave, but this stopped them in their tracks. “Two days ago, Elizabeth chanced upon her out riding in the woods. They could not speak privately, but the Comtesse said she would call upon her today. She told Elizabeth she believed there was an imposter among us.”  

“An imposter?” Ross frowned.  

“Yes – those were here exact words. ‘An imposter among us’.” 

“Did she say who this ‘imposter’ was?” 

“No, as I said, we assumed she would explain herself today. It seems likely that this ‘imposter’ has prevented her.”  

“So it does.” This cast things in a somewhat different light. Could the Comtesse have been referring to the spy? But how did she know of it? More questions!

“There is another thing. It could be nothing, but I feel strongly that it is not. One of our stable boys found a wandering horse at the edge of our grounds – the night after d’Aubigné was killed.”  

“Well that – “ Francis suddenly remembered something, a report he had glance over the a few days ago, but cast aside as being minor, and unrelated to the more serious matters at hand. “Is it a Cleveland Bay?”  

“Yes.” 

“One was stolen from the Kerwin Farm that same night.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	11. X

Ross felt as if he were slowly groping his way through a thick fog, toward some vague shape in the distance, which kept getting a little clearer but then fading away out of reach again when he got too close. When he had decided to finally return to Cornwall, he certainly hadn’t expected to end up in the middle of possibly the most perplexing criminal case of his life.

Francis, to his chagrin, had been forced to deal with some ordinary business of the estate, and was shut up in this study with the estate manager. Ross therefore sat in the parlour, brooding over a glass of Verity’s lemonade. He would have rather liked something stronger, but it was too early in the morning. He had not drunk so relatively little in years as he had since his return to Trenwith, and had to admit that he felt the better for it.

“Did – did someone really bash that poor girl’s head in?” Verity asked quietly from behind her sewing.

“Battered her, they did.” Agatha added with unnecessary relish. She had always been a morbid sort, and advanced age had not improved her.

“Do not concern yourself, Verity.”

“But – “ Before she could finish her objection, there was a brief knock on the door and a footman entered.

“Sir, Madam, Mr Warleggan is here.”

“What does that upstart want?” Agatha demanded. Evidently the strong mutual dislike between his great aunt and George had not altered over the years either. The footman, probably used to Agatha’s outbursts, ignored her.

“Mr Warleggan is here to see you and Mr Poldark, Captain. In private.”

“Well, he will have to wait for Francis. Show him in here.”

George did not look especially thrilled to be ushered into the sitting room, but greeted Ross and Verity politely, barely glancing in Agatha’s direction as she made a face at his back.

“How is Elizabeth? And the children?” Verity asked.

“The children are quite well. Elizabeth is most disturbed by the loss of Séraphine – the Comtesse – of course. She was a particular friend.”

“It is a tragedy.”

Francis’ return pre-empted any further conversation, and after George explained the purpose of his visit, the three men retired to the study.

~

Ross finally took a good look at the man he had once considered his worst enemy. Not at school, although they had never gotten on particularly well, a clash of personalities right from the start, which had put Francis rather in the middle. Although Ross had never liked George much, he had only truly hated him after finding out that George had married Elizabeth while he was away at war. He’d known George had feelings for Elizabeth – it had been written all over his face every time they were together – but had never considered him a true rival. Evidently, he had been wrong. For some time after he last left Cornwall, Ross had focused almost all of his ill-feeling on George – cursing him with every breath and every drink, for stealing the woman Ross loved.

Like everyone else, George had changed a great deal from the last time Ross had seen him. The quiet, withdrawn boy of their schooldays now a commanding, professional figure. Ross had seen Warleggan ships moored in London docks, and the ornate edifice of the Warleggan Bank in Truro. George had taken his father’s burgeoning business interests and transformed them into an empire. Evidently, the success agreed with him. His navy-blue coat was impeccably cut, pristine white neck-cloth secured with a silver pin.

Now, Ross found that, as with Elizabeth, his feelings towards George were not so strong as he had imagined they would be. Elizabeth was not an object to be stolen – she had freely chosen to give herself to another man, and had clearly never regretted it. Could Elizabeth have been as happy with Ross as she evidently was with George? That question could never be answered, and there was no point in dwelling on it. The fact that he and George did not especially like one another ultimately made no difference. Resenting him for winning Elizabeth would achieve nothing – just as resenting Elizabeth for moving on when she believed Ross dead would not either.

“In light of the Comtesse’s dreadful fate,” George picked a possibly imaginary mote from the brim of his hat, which rested upon his knee, “there is something very important I must tell you both.”

“You are the Admiralty’s chief agent in this county.” To George’s credit, he did not so much as flicker at Ross’ pre-emption of his statement. Ross had not been entirely certain of this conclusion, but enough so to venture it. George’s nod proved him right.

“So, Ross, you have worked me out.”

“When James Blamey told us they had a spymaster in the county, I did begin to wonder who it was. It had to be someone with sufficient connection and influence to cultivate an intelligence network, someone with contacts throughout society. Who better than a banker? Or the owner of a shipping company? There are one or two other men in the county who could possibly fit the bill, but they have neither the intelligence nor the work ethic.” It pained him just a touch to pay what were dangerously close to compliments to George, but it had to be said. George thankfully let them pass by without comment.

“You – you – what?” Ross had not shared his suspicion with Francis, lest he was wrong, and clearly his cousin had not arrived at the same conclusion. Unsurprising, given his closeness to George. He did not seem to be taking the revelation well.

“It has not been easy, Francis, keeping such – “

“You have _lied_ to me! _Spied_ on me?”

“No – Francis – “ Ross was almost surprised to see genuine distress on George’s face. The other man glanced sideways at Ross, clearly wishing he could have had this conversation with Francis in private. “I did not wish to deceive you – and I am sorry that I have had to – but you must understand that the utmost secrecy is vital. Considering your position, I did not want to place you in any danger, or compromise you in any way. However, I have wanted to tell you the truth for some time – our present circumstances have made it clear that there is no other option. I say that I have only acted for what I believed was the best, but I nevertheless understand if you are angered. I merely ask that you put aside that anger at least until I have helped you so far as I am able.”

“You have concealed information pertinent to these murders? You realise that could be construed as a crime?” If Ross had hoped to make George squirm, he was unfortunately to be disappointed. The discomfort George had shown while trying to placate Francis disappeared, and he fixed Ross with that disconcerting gaze – there had always been a cold steeliness behind it, which had put Ross’ back up at school, but it was now there in full force.

“Until very recently – by which I mean the day before yesterday – I had nothing but theories and speculation, albeit informed speculation. I could offer you no answers, but merely more questions.”

“And now?” Francis had scowled at the floor for a short while, but seemed to have calmed.

“Now I can tell you with certainty that Edouard d’Aubigné was a French spy.”

“How do you know this?” Francis’ interest seemed to have been peaked, and Ross had to admit that he felt the same way.

“I understand that James Blamey explained to you how the Admiralty discovered the existence of a spy in the district – I was opposed to his attempting to interfere in your investigation, I might add, and only partially because I knew it would have no effect.” George did not smile, but out of the corner of his eye Ross saw Francis attempt to suppress a twitch of his mouth. “The line of communication had been interrupted, but it was imperative that we identify the source. We learned the pattern of the messages – a report was made on a regular basis. Foolish, but extremely helpful to us. We were able to eliminate several suspects based upon that alone.”

“And how did you settle upon d’Aubigné?”

“Partly by that process of elimination, but there were certain other factors. One being his apparent affluence despite the state of his bank account. The other being that while intoxicated, he boasted to a…female companion that he would soon be once moe in possession of his family estate in France, which had been seized.”

“Idle talk, surely?”

“The young lady did not think so.”

“One of your agents, presumably?” Ross raised an eyebrow. He knew how well-informed whores could be – careless men would say an awful lot without their breeches on. George merely gave a noncommittal lift of his shoulders, but it was answer enough.

“We intended to feed some false information to the suspects we had, and see which pieces made it into the report. Before we could do that, d’Aubigné was murdered. Therefore, the simplest way to discern if he were the spy was to see if a report was made after his death. It was not.”

“So, d’Aubigné was the spy.”

“Yes. And a murderer. Although I believe you have already come to that conclusion.”

“The knife,” said Francis. “Yes. It was probably d’Aubigné’s. Perhaps du Pas discovered him? Or was du Pas an accomplice?”

“We have no evidence of that. Besides, he was out of the district more than once when the messages were despatched. _How_ he discovered d’Aubigné we don’t know, but it’s reasonable to suspect that he did.”

“So,” Ross mused, “this started with three murders, which were assumed to have one murderer. But now, even with de Vayssiere discounted, we still have three murders, and at least two murderers!”

“Do you know anything of that?” Francis glanced at George. He was clearly still displeased by discovering that his friend had deceived him, but seemed to have accepted George’s request to put that to one side for the moment.

“Not exactly, but I do have something else. Another piece of evidence against d’Aubigné, but it could lead to more. A man named Jethro Dyer, with whom I believe you are familiar, Francis.”

“A suspected smuggler,” Francis glanced at Ross. “I have never been able to prove it.”

“Well, I can,” said George. “There is a man amongst his crew who reports upon his activities, and can testify to several charges. That is not the important part, however.”

“Well, what is?” Ross asked, snappishly. He doubted George was being deliberately long-winded, but he could feel himself becoming impatient. Ross had thrown himself into this case, and found nothing but frustration from the start. If George had some key to unlocking it, then he needed to stop beating around the bush.

“One night last week, while in his cups, Dyer fell to complaining that he had been cheated of a great promised payment. It seems that Dyer was approached and offered a generous sum to transport a Frenchman to Ireland. It is a circuitous route from here, of course, but it avoids the checking of papers at Liverpool and Dublin. Dyer had prepared for the journey, but his passenger never arrived – he is most put out.”

“When was this?”

“He was to depart the night of d’Aubigné’s murder. The man was fleeing discovery.”

“Which explains what d’Aubigné was doing out in the woods in the middle of the night with a bag full of gold and a roll of clothes…”

“…but not why he was brutally murdered.” Finished Francis, with a sigh.

“I have no answer for that – much to my regret.” George did look genuinely dismayed by his lack of further information. Ross recognised what he had offered already for what it partly was. By way of an apology for his deception, he had given Francis not only confirmation of du Pas’ killer, but the means to finally capture this smuggler – who furthermore may hold the key to the rest of the mystery.

“Do you know where Dyer is now?”

“Not precisely, but I have a list of known haunts, should you wish to have him arrested for questioning.” George produced a folded paper from inside his coat.

“I most certainly do.”  


	12. XI

Jethro Dyer was a florid, rotund little man whose smug, self-satisfied demeanour had only increased over the years that Francis failed to bring him to justice. He continued to grin confidently even from his perch on the rotten wooden stool in the magistrate’s court’s cells.

“So, ‘ere we are again, Mr Francis. Got yerself another fancy to ‘aul ole Dyer in, ‘ave you?”

“Yes, Mr Dyer. I have.”

“Would’a thought you’d be fed up wi’ this, now. Me gettin’ dragged in ‘ere by yer louts, not sayin’ nothin’, and you ‘avin to let me go on account o’ lack of evidence.”

“I am ‘fed up’ with that, Mr Dyer. However, that isn’t going to happen this time.”

“Oh, ain’t it? And why that be?”

“Because I have here sworn statements from three of your crew that you have been smuggling French brandy, flour, salt and assorted other goods into the country.” The smile fell off Dyer’s face. It was exactly as satisfying a sight as Francis had imagined. He heard Ross chuckle next to him.

“You’re lyin’.”

“No. You see, one of your crew was in fact loyal to the Crown, and the others are more loyal to their own miserable lives. As soon as we told them they were to be charged, they told us everything. Including where to find your goods – the cave in Ataran Cove.” Dyer blanched.

“So, I will not be letting you go. I will in fact be charging you with smuggling, handling stolen goods…and treason.”

“Treason?! I ain’t committed no treason!” Dyer’s cockiness was completely gone now.

“Have you not? You have traded with the French, and, furthermore, aided their spies in our nation.” George spoke now. Francis had agreed to his participation in this interrogation, considering he had given them Dyer in the first place. He was still displeased with George’s deception, even though he knew his friend had good reason for it. George finally giving him the means to snare Dyer also rather helped.

“Spies?! I dunno about spies!” Dyer was panicking – his normally flushed face pallid.

“You agreed to transport a Frenchman to Ireland underneath the notice of the authorities. That man was a spy.”

“I didn’t know that! I only did it fer t’money, I swear!”

“Why should we believe that?” Ross stepped forward now, leaning casually on the bars. Francis could tell this was not the first time he had adopted such an attitude. “You’ve made it your business to profit from this war, and the privations it has caused. Who knows what else you are capable of?”

“No – “

“There is a way to convince us of your innocence.” Francis said. “Tell us everything you know about the Frenchman you were to transport.”

“I don’t know anythin’!’” Dyer almost wailed. “I never met ‘im!”

“How did he contact you?” George asked.

“Some fella approached me, told me he ‘ad a Frenchman needed to get out ‘o country. Flashed me some coin, like, and promised me a pile more on the night. I didn’t ask no more questions.”

“Who was this man?” George had stepped closer to the bars, and there was a note of eagerness in his voice, although likely imperceptible to anyone who did not know him well. Francis knew what had peaked his interest – whoever this man was, he was likely the missing link in the French spy network, and a strong suspect in the murders of d’Aubigné and the Comtesse. Although, why he would kill the very man he had organised safe passage out of the country for was yet another mystery.

“I don’t know! Like I said, I didn’t ask no more questions. ‘E were local, though. Cornish, that is.” George didn’t react, unsurprisingly, but Francis saw Ross raise an eyebrow. A Cornishman, collaborating with French spies? The idea was disturbing, to say the least.

“What else?” He demanded, interrupting George’s questioning.

“Nothin’!

“Well…” Francis thought for a moment, and then made a decision. “If you can tell me anything that leads me to capture this man, I will reduce the charges against you to merely the receiving of stolen goods.”

“Oh, sir! Thank ‘ee, sir. I be most grateful…” Dyer’s pathetic grovelling might have once pleased him, but now he had no time for it. More important fish were to be caught.

“You’ll have to give him the information first.” Ross said.

“Oh, well, I can describe him a bit, like. But – “ he desperately cut off Francis’ impending dismissal. “He did come to me again t’other day, told me the deal was still on, ‘cept I were to tek ‘im to Ireland instead.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

~

By a stroke of pure luck, their quarry had apparently not discovered that his intended escape had been thwarted. Fortune further smiled upon them in that he had arranged with Dyer to take a small boat out from a cove to meet the ship. He was therefore easy to find, being the only man lurking on the quiet beach at that time of night.

“I ain’t done nothing!” They were back in the cells, Dyer – now sent on to Bodmin jail to await the Assizes – replaced by a weasely little man with dirty blonde hair and a permanently shifty look.

“Sirs, meet Ted Forster. Petty thief, chancer and now, apparently, traitor.” Henshawe locked the cell door behind him.

“I ain’t no traitor!”

“Save your pathetic protests, Forster. We have testimony that you arranged for the passage of a French spy from the country. That’s quite treasonous enough, so far as I’m concerned.” Francis glared at the man – a French spy was one thing, but an Englishman turning against his own country? “You are destined for the gallows – or Botany Bay at the very least. Unless…”

“Unless wha’?!”

“Unless you tell us everything – and I mean everything – about your arrangements with Edouard d’Aubigné.”

“And if I do? You’ll save me from t’rope?”

“I will not charge you with treason. I give my word.”

“All right. I’ll tell ye.”

“You betray your cause very easily, Sir.” Ross observed.

“I ain’t got no cause! I were told I’d be paid ‘andsome if I passed on a few messages, like, so I did. Man’s got to make a living.” Francis felt bitter disgust as such a mercenary attitude, but forced himself to say calm as Forster continued. “So I did what I were asked. I met the French bloke and took ‘is papers where ‘ee told me to, brought back what other fella at port gave me – money for me and t’Frenchman, usually – and that were it for best part of year.”

“What else?” George asked sharply.

“I be gettin’ there, ‘ave a bit o’ patience.” Assured of his freedom, Forster was clearly enjoying having an audience, his earlier panic transformed into a casual bravado. “I never knew much ‘bout the fella. ‘Ee weren’t no lover of his own countrymen, ‘owever. Kept goin’ on about ‘gettin’ back what were rightfully ‘is’ or some such. I didn’t know what ‘e were on about and I din’t care to ask.”

“Did he kill du Pas?” Francis needed to know.

“That doctor? Aye, likely enough. He’d been actin’ jumpy last few weeks, said ‘e thought ‘e were bein’ followed, and I should be extra careful, like. So I were, not that I ever saw owt. Then, ‘e said he’d seen someone out and about at night, when ‘e were on his way to meet me and what not, and that ‘e were going to ‘deal with them’. Next thing I knew, it were goin’ round that doctor were dead.”

“He staged a robbery?” d’Aubigné had probably thought that taking the doctor’s bag would do the job, or perhaps he had been disturbed before he could take anything else. Either way, it made sense of the doctor’s killing. Although why had the doctor been following d’Aubigné? If he was suspicious, why not simply report him?

“Don’t know about that.”

“So, if he had eliminated du Pas, why did he want to flee?” George beat Francis to his next question.

“’E told me ‘e had been found out, and it were time to end it. ‘E would have to go and me disappear, like. I told ‘him I would, but to be honest I were ‘opin the other folk would find someone else for me to go-between for. Anyhow, I knew Dyer would take him away if ‘e were paid enough – I’d heard he’d done same for other folk seeking to stay out way of law, if ye see what I mean.” Francis knew that to be true – it was yet another thing he’d never been able to conclusively pin on Dyer. Until now.

“Who had found him out?”

“Never said who, but ‘e said someone had demanded money. Blackmail, y’see. But ‘e didn’t trust em to keep quiet if ‘e paid. Fair enough, I reckon. Not sure I would in their position.” He grinned and Francis’ distaste for the man doubled.

“So you arranged his passage. Did you steal the horse for him, too?” Ross spoke this time.

“Paid a stable boy a few coins to leave its stall open.”

“You lured him out to that clearing and killed him to save yourself.” They had agreed to hold back this accusation until they drew what they wanted out of Forster.

“What?! No! Why would I bother wi’ all the arrangements and then do ‘im in? I swear I din’t, and I can prove it! I were at t’Lantern Inn in Bodmin all night. Thought it best I weren’t about, like. Barkeep’ll tell ye!”


	13. XII

“This is a labyrinth. Everywhere we turn – a dead end! We’ve discovered half a dozen criminals – and none of them the one we seek!” They stood in the currently empty magistrate’s court, Francis pacing in agitation. Ross sat on one of the public benches, while George lent against the wall. He had to admit that he understood Francis’ frustration. Effectively, his task was complete – he had definitively identified d’Aubigné as the spy passing important information out of Cornwall, and with the arrest of Forster, the whole line had now been rolled up. However, d’Aubigné’s murder was an unanswered question – was there another spy out there somewhere? That he had failed to detect. And Séraphine’s murder…There was no chance at all that she was involved in anything untoward – she was an innocent who had somehow become involved in something very dark indeed.

Elizabeth had become close to the young Frenchwoman, and her grief pained George deeply. He too had liked Séraphine a great deal. One evening over dinner, she had told them both the story of her escape from France – a terrifying, perilous journey conducted virtually alone when she was barely more than a girl. Her family had sent her away to save her life, and to meet such a terrible end in the very country she had fled to for her safety… George could not simply walk away from this. Whether or not Francis would let him remain was really the question.

Francis had willingly co-operated over the interrogation of Forster, however. Possibly because George had offered him a way to draw their information out of the man without allowing him to escape justice. Forster’s face when Francis told him he was under arrest for treason had been quite the picture.

“But ye said I wouldn’t be charged!”

“No. I said _I_ wouldn’t charge you with treason. But these gentleman will.” George had waved in two Marine privates, sent by the Admiralty at his request. They would deal with the man now – and likely make him regret the very moment he decided to betray his country for a few coins.

“What did your men find in d’Aubigné’s room?” Ross asked.

“Not much. His clothes, a Latin Bible…”

“Who searched? Henshawe?”

“No – two others. Barrow and Fen.”

“Did you not tell me that all of your Constables but Henshawe are entirely useless?”

“Well, perhaps not entirely…but, yes.”

“Then, we must search his room again.” Both Poldarks turned to look at George when he spoke, and felt rather pinned by their joint gaze.

“’We?’” Francis raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.” He stood up straight. “I have investigated d’Aubigné thoroughly, more than you have, if you’ll forgive me. I also need to ascertain whether his murder points to more traitors in the district – especially considering Séraphine – the Comtesse’s words about an ‘imposter’. And, frankly, if I can help find her killer, then I intend to do so. She was Elizabeth’s friend – and mine – and an innocent young woman.”

Francis looked him straight in the eye – and nodded.  

~

“There must be some clue here as to his blackmailer.” Francis opened and closed drawers in d’Aubigné’s bureau.

“Or maybe it’s here.” Ross poked at the fireplace, where a few remnants of burned papers remained. The room had apparently been left untouched since d’Aubigné’s death, thankfully, although there did not seem to be much to find, unfortunately.

George opened the chest, wrinkling his nose at the thought of rifling through another man’s clothes, but resigned to the necessity of it. Under a pile of linen shirts, and a rather loudly coloured silk coat, he made a discovery.

“Francis, you really must replace your constables.” Lifting out the worn but good quality black leather bag, he dropped it on the bed, turning it so the embossed monogram was visible to the other men.

_R. du Pas_

“Well, that settles du Pas’ killer for certain, but it still takes us no further.” Francis sighed and rubbed his eyes, before looking down curiously as Ross to his knees to search under the bed. He rummaged for a few moments, turning up a pair of shoes, a couple of loose coins and some dust. Ross was about to withdraw when he paused, looking across the room from his position.

“What’s that? Under the bureau?” George was nearest, and crouched down to look. It was barely visible between the thick pile of the rug and the wood trim – a piece of paper. He just managed to slip two fingers into the gap to pull it out. Francis and Ross, now on his feet, came closer to read it.

“It’s in French.” Francis sounded almost disappointed. He had been a clever boy at school – and grown into an intelligent man – but languages, particularly French, had never been his strong suit.

“What’s that? ‘I know..’” George felt Ross lean closer over his shoulder, and fought the urge to cringe away. He had never especially liked people close to him, bar Elizabeth of course.

“It says: ‘I know what you have done. 50 Livre will buy my silence. The clearing in the woods – midnight on the 15th.” George read, with not a little difficulty. The writing was not neat.

“That’s the night after d’Aubigné’s murder!” cried Francis. “He was fleeing to avoid the blackmailer – just as Forster said.”

“Perhaps the blackmailer caught him doing so, “ mused Ross. “But we still don’t know who it is. It can’t be du Pas because this came _after_ d’Aubigné killed him, if we believe everything Forster said.”

“That looks like a man’s handwriting,” said Francis, extending his hand in silent request for the note. George passed it to him. “It is very rough.”

“An uneducated hand,” agreed George. “There are several mis-spellings and errors of grammar. Which means it could not be the Comtesse either, although I should never have believed her a blackmailer.”

“Perhaps one of your people?” Ross looked at George. “Intelligencers can be just as unscrupulous as thief-takers, in my experience.”

Ross’ expression remained neutral, and his tone mild, so George could not tell if he intended some sort of slight. If he did, George was not in the mood to care.

“No. While I do not claim my people to be entirely free of sin, I am certain none would stoop to blackmail and murder. Besides which, only three people knew of d’Aubigné’s identity as the suspected spy. Myself, and my two most trusted agents.”

“How trusted?”

“With my life.” This was entirely the truth, which Ross seemed to accept. George was almost surprised, he had half-expected to be accused of blackmail himself. He would not have put it past Ross once upon a time.

“Perhaps du Pas was not involved at all.” Francis said suddenly. He had seemingly ignored Ross and George’s exchange while pondering the note again.

“Well, we know he was not involved, as such,” replied Ross. “Merely that he discovered d’Aubigné.”

“Yes, but what if he didn’t? Forster said d’Aubigné thought he was being followed by someone he had seen around at night, but du Pas had plenty of reasons to be out and about at night aside from following d’Aubigné.” George saw instantly what his friend was driving at, and by the look on Ross’ face he did too.

“It was the blackmailer following d’Aubigné, never du Pas; but d’Aubigné jumped to conclusions when he saw du Pas out in the evenings to see his patients.”

“He would have known du Pas was a doctor, but considering what he was doing, d’Aubigné was probably paranoid.” George said, closing the lid of the chest and perching on it. Francis had sat down at the desk, and Ross on the window ledge.

“The Comtesse must have been referring to the blackmailer as the ‘imposter’, although it is an odd way to phrase it,” Ross murmured thoughtfully.

“But we are back to the eternal question – who?” Francis slumped in the chair.

“Well, who did she come into contact with? George, she was friends with Elizabeth, yes? Who else would she have spent enough time with to identify as an ‘imposter’?”

“Aside from Elizabeth and myself and the Enys’, primarily the other French. Her English was good, but she was not confident. However, I cannot imagine to which of _them_ she could have referred. The Admiralty’s agents in France made extensive enquiries into their backgrounds when the search for the spy began. So far as could be ascertained, all gave an accurate account of their credentials, even d’Aubigné.”

“But was there anything about any of them which suggested they might be capable of any of this? Perhaps it was not what you were looking for then, but…” Ross trailed off, but George knew what he was getting at. Irritatingly, he had no real answers.

“Well, many would have good reason to hate a man working for the French government – most of them lost virtually everything to the Revolution: their families and friends murdered, estates and fortunes stolen. There are some who are not capable, however – Madame de Voyer, for example, or old Pére Cornet. No others who lodge at Cusgarne – aside from the priest, there is Mlle Dieudonné, who would not have the strength to kill anyone and the Prévots, who are unlikely murderers in my opinion. The only one _physically_ capable is the Vicomte de la Tour – had he not broken his leg falling off his horse last month.”

“So – if we do assume that the killer is one of the French, it leaves the guests at Tehidy, and the MM de Droux and Leféron.”

“So who is it?” Francis looked between them both, asking the question on all of their minds.

“We must observe them all,” Ross said. “And tomorrow, we will have the ideal opportunity.”

The Comtesse’s funeral.

~

It was naturally a subdued affair – not the celebration of a long life lived well, but the lamentation of a tragic one cut brutally short. Caroline Enys had ridden rough-shod over Rev Odgers objections to have Pére Cornet conduct a service for the Comtesse – insisting that as they could not protect her in life, they could at least honour her in death by having her buried as a Catholic.

“Would her killer really be so brazen as to appear at her funeral?” Francis whispered. He, George and Ross stood out in the entrance hall, removed from the rest of the mourners, gathered in Killewarren’s great hall.

“It might seem more suspicious if they did not.” Ross murmured in return.

“Do any act oddly to your eye? I cannot say I have noticed anything untoward.”

“Many of them are afraid.” George added. “They worry they might be next. I have ordered men to patrol the grounds at Cardew. Possibly unnecessarily, but if it will assuage our guests fears.”

“What if we are wrong about this? We said ourselves that the blackmailer’s hand was uneducated – what if this is some local crook?”

“Writing in French?” Ross asked, and then thought a moment. “None of the French brought servants with them, did they?”

“No,” George confirmed. “The Comtesse left those who accompanied her in London. The Prévots do have an old retainer – Marthe, I believe her name is – but she is fifty if she is a day.”

Francis blew out a breath of frustration. George shared his feelings. This killer must be caught, but there was no hint of their identity – no individual with sufficiently obvious motive. A desire for money was often a blackmailer’s lot, and many of the French were impoverished due to the theft of their property in the Revolution, but that that did not automatically make them capable of murder. Of course, the true concern was not exactly the apprehension of the killer, but that they might kill again.

Just as George had this thought, a cry came up from the hall.

“Help! Help!” He was first through the door, but was only vaguely aware of Ross and Francis following him as his focus narrowed to the scene in front of him. Elizabeth was bent double in her chair, gripping the back of it as she struggled to catch her breath, her other hand at her chest. He did not know who spoke the next words, but they turned his blood to ice.

“It’s poison! She’s been poisoned!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! 
> 
> Only one more set of chapters to go...
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	14. XIII

For a moment, Ross thought George wasn’t going to move – he stood frozen, apparently transfixed by the sight of Elizabeth’s agony. He was about to slip past him when he suddenly recovered himself, darting forward to his wife’s side just as Dwight reached her other.

“Help me get her outside.” Ross and Francis followed as George and the doctor half-walked, half-carried Elizabeth into the reception hall, her breathing horribly ragged. The other guests watched in horrified silence.

“Make sure no one leaves this room,” Ross murmured to a worried-looking footman on the way out, who frowned at him for a moment, but nodded. As the door closed behind them, whatever spell had fallen over the room shattered and a sudden wave of panicked chatter erupted.

Elizabeth was on her knees on the rug in the hall, her black skirts puddled around her, still hyperventilating, gripping tightly to George’s coat as he held her close. Ross could hear him speaking to her quietly, but could not make out the words.

“Elizabeth,” Dwight crouched next to them both, speaking softly. “I must make you vomit – it will not be pleasant, but it is necessary, do you understand?”

She managed to nod, and Dwight gently took his face in her hand, bringing the other to her mouth. Ross looked away, grimacing – Elizabeth did not need to suffer the indignity of witnesses. He heard her gag and then vomit.

“Once more.” Dwight evidently repeated the procedure and Elizabeth vomited again. The pungent smell filled the hall. Ross pushed it away –he was well used to odours far worse. He turned back. The rug was now stained with red – the punch served at the wake. Some had splashed on George’s expensive-looking shoes and stockings, but he paid it no mind, watching Elizabeth with concern, stroking her back soothingly. Her breathing was still heavy, but had slowed. She raised a slightly shaky hand to wipe her mouth – the fact she could manage the gesture was in itself encouraging. “Is that better?”

“Y – Yes.” Her voice was weak, but at least she could now speak. Thankfully, Dwight seemed to have managed to purge the worst of the poison.

“Come, we must take you upstairs.” Dwight turned to a maid, who stood wringing her apron in her hands, looking terrified. He had to speak twice to get her to pay attention. “Can you have some salt water brought up, please? And some brandy? And have someone send for Miss Carne. Tell her what has happened, she will know what to bring.”

Dwight stood, and Elizabeth tried to follow, but George shook his head and swept her up into his arms, a relatively impressive feat considering he and his wife were of about the same height. He followed Dwight toward the staircase; Francis was about to follow but Ross caught his arm.

“No. The killer is here, this is our opportunity. We must catch them now. I asked a footman to keep the guests in the hall, but we must seal the whole house. Summon your constables, the militia if necessary.” Francis shook himself, as if trying to wake from a dream. Ross understood. He himself was horrified by what had happened, but they needed to act quickly.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. You there – bring me some paper.” A pale footman hurried away, stepping around a maid who had rushed to begin scrubbing the rug. He returned admirably quickly with paper and pencil. Francis tore the sheet up and scribbled a few notes. The footman dashed off again and Ross was about to say that they needed to see the mistress of the house when the lady herself appeared from the great hall. The hubbub inside seemed to have died down, but nervous murmurings followed her.

“Where is Elizabeth? What is happening? Caroline demanded, though her face was wan and her eyes threatened tears.

“Dwight took her upstairs, it seems she will recover.” Francis said gently. Ross hoped that were true – Elizabeth seemed better but poison was complex. Dwight must have sent for the Carne woman for a reason, hopefully she could help. “For now, Caroline, we need your help.”

“The killer is here, now. We need to prevent anyone leaving the house until we can identify them.” Ross explained. “Francis has sent for the constables, but we need your staff to help until they arrive.”

“I will speak to the head footman, he can send for some groundsmen.” Pulling herself together, Caroline disappeared in the direction of the servant’s quarters. Ross once again admired her resolve in the face of such difficult circumstances.

“We need to take a look at the guests. One of them is the killer.”

“What if they try again? What if they’ve poisoned the punch?” Francis was clearly fighting to master himself, but his voice remained admirably steady.

“No. Elizabeth must have been the intended victim. No one else has suffered. If the killer is the ‘imposter’ the Comtesse referred to – and it seems likely they are – then they must have somehow realised that she had spoken to Elizabeth.”

“But how do we identify them? If they are careful enough, they will attempt to conceal themselves. If they tried to flee, it would single them out.”

“Exactly. Now, we must try to keep the household calm until reinforcements arrive.”

~

Caroline’s maids and footmen proved to be impressively competent – the young women passing out soothing drinks to the guests, while the men stood unobtrusively but watchfully at every door. Ross had watched every face carefully when Francis, with Caroline standing confidently beside him, had announced that for the safety of all concerned, it would be best if they remained here for the time being. There had been one or two murmurs of discontent, as well some looks of agitation and abject fear, but nothing overtly suspicious, much to Ross’ frustration.    

Miss Carne had responded quickly to her summons, touching Francis briefly on the arm in greeting before following a maid upstairs, battered leather bag in her hand. Almost like a real physician.

Blessedly, Francis’ men – or at least Henshawe – proved reasonably swift, arriving with several militia men in tow. Most stationed themselves outside the house, so as to prevent anyone slipping away unnoticed, while Francis summoned Henshawe and a slightly nervous but determined-looking young man named Carkeek to a small parlour near the dining room.

“Did you bring what I asked, Henshawe?”

“Yes, sir.” Henshawe produced a small, leather-bound book which Francis took.

“This is all of the information the French emigres reported to me on their arrival. I have gone through it several times already, but it is possible there may be something I have missed.” It was good thinking on Francis’ part, and Ross was annoyed it hadn’t occurred to him. They had all of their suspects here in one place, they needed all the information they could get.

“Ah, here you are.” Dwight appeared at the door. He had removed his coat and looked slightly ruffled, but thankfully not too sombre.

“Elizabeth?”

“She will recover. Miss Carne brought charcoal powder – it impedes the action of many poisons. I knew she would have some on hand. I do not generally keep it, but perhaps I should.”

“Can you tell what Elizabeth was poisoned with?” Ross asked. It may help them identify the poisoner.

“Considering she is still alive, I can tell you many substances it was _not_. But, unfortunately, not precisely what it was. Nothing particularly potent, I do not think. Although her symptoms were alarming, I believe they would not have been ultimately fatal.”

“So our poisoner is inexpert, or Elizabeth did not drink enough of her punch before she felt the effects.”

“I’d be inclined to the former, considering the rough, brutal way he killed d’Aubigné and Séraphine. But, I am not here to tell you your business.”

“No, Dwight,” replied Francis. “We need every sharp mind we can gather.”

“So,” Ross began to pace the length of the small room, “we have already eliminated most of the French in that room. The English are all also unlikely, particularly as the Comtesse and d’Aubigné had relatively little to do with them.”

“Which leaves the French guests at Tehidy.” Francis flicked through the pages of his book. “There is M. Eysseric, Mlle du Cazal, Capitaine Solé, Mme and Mlle de Lazard, and M. de Cygne.”

“Well, I believe we can exclude the women – I do not say that women cannot kill, but the strength required to inflict the wounds we have seen…”

“I agree. Capitaine Solé was a soldier, he would have…” Francis stopped himself, glancing at Ross, who realised what he had been about to say. Francis pursed his lips and then nodded to himself. “Close the door, Dwight. What I am about to say cannot leave this room.”

Frowning, Dwight did as he was asked.

“Henshawe? Carkeek? We must have your word also.”

“You have it, Sir.” Henshawe replied, and Carkeek nodded, his young face solemn.

“The fact of the matter is..d’Aubigné was a spy for the French.”

“You know this for certain?” Dwight looked stricken by the idea.

“I am afraid so, although we cannot explain how.”

“You mean, we have been harbouring a traitor in our home?” Dwight passed a hand over his eyes, understandably distressed. “The Comtesse was not involved, surely?”

“No. We believe she uncovered the identity of the killer.”

“And Elizabeth?”

“Due to her closeness to the Comtesse, the killer likely believed she knew their identity also.”

“But, Caroline was also close to Séraphine! She could be in danger!” Dwight made to leave, but Ross stopped him.

“She will be safe with the constables here. We must not do anything to alert this murderer to what we know of them. Now, as to what you were saying, Francis. Capitaine Solé would certainly have good reason to hate a spy – many soldiers who supported the monarchy were murdered and imprisoned. And he would know how to kill - ” Ross was about to say that the murders had been done rather clumsily for a soldier, but Dwight interrupted him.

“He may know how, but he is not capable.”

“What makes you say that?” Francis asked.

“He has an old battle wound in his right shoulder, a sword damaged the joint many years ago. He cannot raise the arm to full height without pain, and it is worsening. Normally, I would never discuss a patient, but…”

“I am sure the Captaine would forgive you, considering you have proven his innocence of murder. Although that leaves us with so few suspects – none of whom seem likely killers – that I’m inclined to think we have got this all wrong and it is some other person we have never thought of!”

“No, Francis, there must be something here.” Ross took Francis’ book and flicked through it, landing on the most recent entry. His eyes alighted on a particular item, meticulously recorded in Francis’ curling script.

“Dwight…” he began, slowly. “Where was the Comtesse from?”

“Somewhere in the South, I believe. Near Perpignan.”

The tiny spark in Ross’ mind ignited, and several things fell into place – a story related in a London coffee house, a warning to a pair of wandering children, the Comtesse’s ‘imposter’, a blocked water pump, half a dozen passing comments…

“Captain Poldark, Sir?” He was snapped out of his thoughts, finding Francis, Dwight and the two constables staring at him, Henshawe stepping forward as if to take his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Ross looked at Francis. “I know who the killer is.”


	15. XIV

“M. de Cygne, would you come with me, please?” Francis spoke quietly in the man’s ear, cursing his poor French. De Cygne clearly understood, however. He stiffened, glancing about him as if looking for a way out.

“Do not do that, Sir.” Ross approached from the other side. They had cornered him by the great stone fireplace, Dwight directing them to a smaller door where they could enter the hall without attracting undue attention. The funeral guests still chattered anxiously, huddled in fearful groups. De Cygne had stood alone, apart from the others. “You cannot make your escape. Men await you at every door.”

Henshawe and Carkeek stood at the nearest entrance, while other constables guarded the remaining doors. Francis may have despaired at his men’s wit, but he had to admit that they could put on a show of force when necessary.

“Come quietly.” De Cygne’s shoulders slumped and he nodded.

~

“How do you know it was him?” Dwight frowned after de Cygne as he was marched out of the house. Instead of trailing him to the magistrate’s court, Francis had ordered him put in an outhouse. He would be questioned there.

“It is easier if I explain when we question him.” Ross said, and Francis gritted his teeth in annoyance. They had not ruled de Cygne out as a suspect, but he could not see any obvious reason to consider him in particular. He had only been in Cornwall six weeks or so. And what motive did he have? Why must Ross be so mysterious? “There is only one difficulty.”

“What? Oh.” Francis realised. De Cygne’s English was virtually non-existent. They had just about managed to place him under arrest, but a proper questioning would require a fluent translator. Except they had none amongst them. “How is your French, Dwight?”

“Middling.”

“Caroline’s is good, is it not?”

“No.” Dwight was firm. “Absolutely not. Caroline has been through enough with these events. She does not need to hear what details may come of this interrogation. I doubt she would thank me for this, but I speak not only as her husband, but as a physician.”

“Of course.” Francis couldn’t blame the man, but it was a stumbling block. Elizabeth was the best French speaker he knew, but she was in no condition to help. “Well, that leaves…”

“Me.” They all turned to see George standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face drawn. He had removed his coat and neck-cloth, and Francis realised it was the most dishevelled he had ever seen George in public. He could hardly blame him, he had just witnessed a potentially fatal attack on his wife.

“How is Elizabeth?”

“Sleeping. Caroline and Miss Carne are with her. They will send for me when she wakes.”

“We cannot ask you to – “

“I insist. If de Cygne is the man, I want to look him in the eye when he admits it. Besides, who else can speak to him?”

“He’s right, Francis.” Ross spoke up behind him. Francis glanced back at his friend. Although George was clearly shaken, that familiar steely determination was in his eyes.

“Thank you, George.”

De Cygne had been sat on a stool in an old stone pile that might have once been a stable, a few tallow candles adding to the meagre light which filtered through the narrow slits of windows. The constables apparently had no shackles, so his hands had been bound with rope. Henshawe and Carkeek stood over him, the former holding a solid cudgel. De Cygne was clearly discomfited, but attempting nonchalance. A big man, broad-shouldered and rugged, with a pox-scarred face and a heavy brow. He barked something in French – his accent was truly odd. Francis could barely make out a word. George replied, and he understood part of that – _muertrier_ , murderer.

“He says he is no killer.”

“We’ll see about that. I will tell what he most definitely is not – a de Cygne of Perpignan.” George did not wait for Ross to finish his sentence but translated it as Ross spoke. Francis had heard both he and Elizabeth do this before, and always found it somewhat disconcerting, the French words following a mere moment after the English. It therefore took Francis a moment to absorb what Ross had said. He accused de Cygne of being the imposter! But how could he know? The man began to protest, but Ross cut him off. “The de Cygne’s of Perpignan were all slaughtered by a mob in ‘91. Every man, woman and child, their chateau burned to the ground. It was a notorious horror among the French from that quarter – I heard the story from a former priest in London. Something bothered me about you when we were introduced, but I did not recall the name until I made the connection to Perpignan, where you claim to be from and which, if my French geography is correct, is in Roussilon, where the Comtesse de la Chatre’s family also lived.”

De Cygne – or whoever he was – blanched as Francis _finally_ felt understanding begin to form in his mind. He was the imposter the Comtesse had spoken of – she had of course known the story of her countrymen, and realised that this man fabricated his identity. But what of d’Aubigné?

“Caroline introduced the two of you the night of the party!” Dwight spoke up suddenly from the doorway. He too had wanted to see this through, angered by the vicious deaths of those who had lived in his home, for whom Francis knew he felt responsible. “Because you told her you were from the province.”

“That was when the Comtesse realised that you were a liar.” Francis added. “And that is why she told Elizabeth that there was an imposter among us.”

“So you battered her to death.” Ross finished grimly.

“She did not have to die!” De Cygne finally spoke. “I tried to explain but she would not listen to reason! “

“Tried to explain why you fabricated your identity? Or why you killed d’Aubigné?” Francis pushed down another wave of annoyance. He generally did not like to ask suspects questions unless he already knew the answers. To be kept in the dark by his cousin was irritating, even if understandable in the circumstances.

“He deserved it! He deserved worse!”

“So you admit it?”

“Yes!” George did not need to translate that.

“Why? Because he was a spy?” de Cygne looked genuinely surprised at that.

“Is that what he was doing? Sneaking about at night? Well, then he deserved it even more.”

“So, why then? Tell us. And your real name while you are at it.” de Cygne said nothing.

“You may as well,” said Francis. “You have confessed to two murders in front of several witnesses. You have nothing more to lose. And you say d’Aubigné deserved it – justify yourself.”

“Very well, monsieurs. But you are wrong about one thing – I lost everything long before tonight. My real name is Pascal Boucher. I am not a noble, but I have spent plenty of time among them. I was a gardener at Versailles. My wife died when she was young, and we had but one daughter – Lena. She was a serving girl in the palace, but one of the Queen’s ladies took a liking to her, and she was given special favour, attending the ladies at their garden parties and the like. They even gave her little presents, pretty ribbons and buttons. I worried that she was getting her head turned, dazzled by all their finery, by a world she could never belong to.”

Although Francis could hear the emotion in the man’s voice, and see it written plainly across his face, George’s emotionless translation of his words took the edges off it somewhat. Francis was thankful – he did not want to feel at all sorry for this man, no matter what tale he told.

“One day I saw her in the gardens with d’Aubigné. She insisted that he had merely passed the time with her, as he was a friend of her lady, Madame d’Estaing. I trusted Lena, she was a good girl, but I knew what those men were like. There was gossip among the other servants – that Lena had become d’Aubigné’s mistress. She continued to insist it was not true, and I did not know what to believe. I tried to keep an eye on her, but it was impossible – I saw less and less of her as she spent more time within the palace walls. I managed to approach d’Aubigné. I asked him to let Lena be, to spare her reputation, but he laughed in my face! Told me he did not take instruction from filthy peasants! I could have killed him then and there.”

“Then, I received word that my father was dying, and I had to return to my family home in Neuilly. Bad weather prevented my getting back to Versaille for some weeks. On my arrival, a messenger came from the palace to tell me that I must go there at once. When – “ His voice faltered, and his big shoulders slumped. “I was taken to the servants’ quarters. Lena was there, with Madame d’Estaing. She was a good woman, she brought one of the palace doctors to attend on Lena but…but she was dying. There was nothing to be done. They would not tell me what was wrong, so when they left me alone with Lena I begged her to tell me.”

He said something more, but George broke off his translation and questioned the man in French that Francis could not quite follow. A brief, snappish exchange followed, before George turned to the other men.

“Forgive me, but he would not be clear. It seems the girl had fallen pregnant, and attempted to rid herself of the child.” Francis grimaced. A young serving girl at Trenwith had died from such a thing when he was a boy. A terrible end.

“Tell him to continue.” Ross said. George complied and Boucher resumed.

“d’Aubigné was the father. She would not confirm it exactly, but I knew. I could tell by her face. She died shortly after. My only child. My only family. I swore revenge on d’Aubigné, but he had disappeared. This was shortly before the October March, and some of the nobles had already begun to slip away – perhaps they sensed what was coming. After the royal family were taken to Tuileries, the rest of us were simply left behind. There was no work, and nobody to pay us for it anyway. I went to Paris and managed to find employment here and there, always keeping my eyes and ears open for any sign of d’Aubigné. I barely noticed what was happening around me – the Revolution. What did I care for all their talk of liberty when my Lena was gone? My greatest fear was that the mobs might find him before I did. Eventually, I heard that many of the nobles had fled to England. I managed to buy passage. Upon on my arrival in London I was approached by a young Englishwoman who was helping the nobles – she assumed I was one of them who had fallen upon hard times. It was an ideal opportunity – all the better to look for d’Aubigné if I could move amongst them. I gave my name as de Cygne; a minor branch of the family lived at Neuilly and my father once worked for them. I knew the line came from the south, Perpignan – I had heard the master speak of them – so I gave that as my birthplace.”

“I had seen enough of the nobles to pass myself off as one of them. I claimed d’Aubigné was a friend who I hoped to find alive. I was introduced to an English judge who had harboured the French – d’Aubigné had stayed with him but then come here. The journey here was more difficult than that across the Channel, with your terrible roads and miserable weather, but it was all worth it if I could find that wretch! I did not ask about him when I arrived, in case I aroused suspicion, but after only a few days, Sir Francis held one of those stupid parties you are all so fond of, and there he was! Right in front of me, the filthy animal who had taken my Lena from me. After all those years searching, it was all I could do not to take a knife and plunge it into his black heart then and there. Especially when we were introduced and he did not recognise me – he barely glanced at me, looking down his nose just like he had the first time I spoke to him.”

“All right, Boucher, enough of your life story. How did you contrive to kill him?” Ross was clearly losing patience. Francis felt exactly the same way, and there was a clear, growing note of irritation slipping into George’s translation. A flicker of anger crossed Boucher’s face at the interruption, and he moved on the stool, but Henshawe placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and he stilled. After a moment, he continued.

“I began to follow him, seeking my opportunity. I noticed his odd behaviour – sneaking around at night, meeting with criminals, but I did not care what he was doing. Something underhand I was sure, so I used it to my advantage.”

“You sent him the blackmail threat.” Francis was pleased to finally make sense of something. Boucher being a commoner passing himself off as a noble explained the uneducated hand of the note.

“Yes. My father gave me an education.” Despite his circumstances, his chest puffed a little with pride. “But I knew I had to watch d’Aubigné carefully, and I found the horse in the woods the night before I had asked to meet him. I had seen him go there before – I knew it must mean he was planning an escape. I cut the animal free and waited for him. This time I made sure he remembered me – he tried to run, the miserable coward, but I caught him. I wanted him to know what he had done, to be sorry for Lena, but he insulted me again, he called her a common whore! So I – I – “

“You unmanned him.” Ross finished.

“Yes! And he deserved every wound. I would do it again a hundred times over!” At this declaration – Boucher’s angry shout flattened by George’s dispassionate English – a short silence fell over the room as every man in it truly absorbed the story they had just heard. Eventually, Francis spoke, George turning his words into French a moment after.

“Your daughter suffered a grave injustice, M. Boucher, and a dreadful fate. M. d’Aubigné was a spy, a murderer and a seducer, so I cannot grieve too deeply for his death – nor especially blame you for seeking it. I could well imagine feeling the same way in your position even though I have no child of my own. You are not the first man brought before me who has committed an act of violence against those who have truly wronged him or those he cared for. Perhaps we might have all taken pity upon you – had you not then battered an innocent young girl to death, and attempted to kill one of the finest women I know to save your own skin.” George’s voice dropped dangerously low as he finished translating Francis’ final words, and Francis watched his jaw work in the way he knew meant George was fighting to control himself. Frankly, the restraint he had shown so far was incredible.

“That did not need to happen! I tried to reason with the girl, but she would not listen, I told you! She called me a liar and a spy – she said she had told the Englishwoman, that she would tell everyone. I begged her to let me explain, but she fought me, she began to scream and I – I picked up the stone…it made me sick to have done it.”

“Not sick enough not to poison Mistress Warleggan.”

“She is an influential woman. If she spoke against me, I would be discovered. I offered to get her and the other ladies some punch at the wake, and – “

“And poisoned her with some plant you had obtained from the gardens at Tehidy,” Ross finished for him, and Francis again cursed himself for not making the link. Sir Francis’ mother had been a keen gardener, and even kept a poison garden – he recalled being warned to keep out of it when they had played there with Sir Francis’ siblings as children. Boucher being a gardener explained how he knew which to pick. It was only a blessing he was seemingly not knowledgeable enough to administer the necessary dose.

“Yes.”

“And if we ask the constables to dig up the blocked water system at Tehidy, will they find the knife which killed d’Aubigné?” Another detail Francis had missed but Ross had not. Most frustrating. Boucher nodded resignedly.

“Yes.”

“Well. I think we have heard all we need, do you agree, gentlemen?” Ross looked about them all, and everyone nodded. If they felt as Francis did, they could not bear anymore. He did have one last thing he had to say to Boucher, however. Feeling that George had done enough, he mustered his own middling French, hoping that he could make himself understood.

“M. Boucher – you claim pride in what you did to d’Aubigné, but you would not admit it until we forced you, and indeed committed grave attacks against two innocent women in order to protect yourself. You call him a coward, but perhaps you ought consider yourself first. You will have some time to do so before you meet your fate – I am afraid our justice is a touch less swift than that of your countrymen. Our rope is not quite so quick as their blade.”

By Boucher’s face, Francis’ meaning was entirely clear.


	16. Epilogue

It was a cold, windy night upon which Agatha Poldark went to bed and never rose from it again. For her great-niece and great-nephews it was both entirely to be expected and a very great shock. All their lives she had been a constant, formidable presence, unshakeable and seemingly everlasting. She had survived so much – countless hard, freezing winters and humid, disease-carrying summers, outliving every one of her own siblings, and every niece and nephew. The true reality of her death did not hit Ross until he stood by Francis and Verity, watching two maids quietly and respectfully prepare Agatha’s body for the undertakers. She looked so small and frail, that great spirit gone, to leave behind only the worn cage in which she had been bound to this earthly realm.

“You know, when she was born, King William was still on the throne? What it would be to live such a long life – and what of it has she left behind? No husband, no children. Do you know, we don’t even have a proper portrait of her? She would never allow one to be painted. Such a great presence to us, but how long will she be remembered? For our lifetimes? Our children’s? Should we ever manage to have them, that is.”

“You are in a melancholy mood, Francis.”

“Well, it is a funeral.” It was a quiet affair – Agatha had not socialised for nigh on thirty years and most of the friends and acquaintances of her youth were long dead themselves. Ross suspected that one or two of the mourners – old Mrs Nanskervis for one, and Cary Warleggan for another – had only come to satisfy themselves that Agatha was truly, finally dead. Francis was right in a way – what was it to show for such a long life?

_Then again_ , Ross thought, _what is there to show for mine?_ If he died tomorrow, who would come to his funeral? Francis. Verity. Dwight, perhaps. And what a poor friend and relation he had been to all of them these past years. Absorbing himself in solving the mystery of the dead Frenchmen had allowed him to push away his guilt for the most part, but Agatha’s death brought it back in full force.

He’d found a calling in London – and who of those who’d known him as a younger man would be surprised that he’d made violence and chaos his business? But what had he lost in return? A decade of his family’s lives, time he could never get back. And all because of a boyish heartbreak. Elizabeth was right – he’d been barely a man then, too young to go to war and too young to know what real love was. Certainly too young to realise that throwing himself head-long into a whirl of drink and cards and loose women was not the way to solve his problems. What to do now he had realised that, several years too late, was a different matter entirely.

He was pulled from his reverie by Francis shifting beside him. Following the direction of his cousin’s gaze, he saw Demelza Carne pause briefly in the doorway to the drawing room, her red hair bright against a simple dark blue dress. She and Francis exchanged a look before she disappeared back into the room.

“Why don’t you just marry her?” If Ross was expecting Francis to be surprised that he had discerned their connection, he was disappointed. Francis merely glanced sideways at him and tutted. “It is not as if Charles is still here to disapprove.”

“It is more complicated than that.” Francis did not elaborate further, and Ross chose not to press him. Instead, his cousin changed the subject. “Have you considered my offer?”

“I have.” After the conclusion of the French case – Boucher had pleaded guilty to his crimes at the Assizes, and would hang in two days’ time – Francis had decided that some serious change was in order and dismissed all but two of his constables: Henshawe, of course, and the young Carkeek, who had shown promise on the night of Boucher’s arrest, and whom Henshawe had spoken up for. Francis then suggested that Ross, instead of returning to Bow Street, take up a position here.

“And?”

“I hope the wage is not _too_ meagre, cousin, for I have an estate to rebuild.” Francis flashed him a wide smile before clapping him on the shoulder. It was partly seeing the condition of Nampara that had prompted Ross to decide to stay. That beautiful, sturdy old house where he spent his childhood, where both of his parents had died, and his little brother Claude had lived the entirety of his tragically short life – it was close to ruin, and all because of his abandonment. Francis had provided for what tenants remained so far as he could, but once upon a time Nampara had sustained dozens, its mines and land employing almost the whole of Sawle. Perhaps he could not hope to return to those days, but he should at least try. A constable’s stipend was not a fortune, but it would let him plough whatever he could still squeeze out of the estate back into it.

“You can help me recruit some more suitable men. And Verity will be delighted, even if she is going off back to Falmouth soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, cousin, I have to at least attempt to be a decent host.” Francis headed off back into the drawing room, leaving Ross alone in the great hall. He stood by the windows for a while, watching the rain dance off the lawns. Autumn was approaching, and the leaves would soon turn and fall. The beauty of the changing seasons was something else London had deprived him of. How badly the City stank was the primary difference between hot and cold weather.

“I have not had the chance to offer my condolences, Ross.” George stood in the doorway, glass of sherry in hand.

“You absolutely loathed Agatha.”

“And she me,” George agreed, mildly. “But I know what it is to grieve one’s family.”

Ross did not quite know what to say to that – genuine empathy was not something he would have ever suspected from George, especially not over the death of Agatha. The old woman had hated George from the first moment they met – despite George being barely twelve years old at the time. Knowing Agatha, Ross doubted their relationship had improved any over time.

“I understand congratulations are also in order,” George continued. “On your new position. I have told Francis more than once that he needs to hire some new men.”

“It is not merely Francis who hires me.” Sir Hugh Bodrugan had announced his retirement from the bench only two days previously, and Francis had warned Ross that George would replace him when he made his offer of employment.  As Chief Magistrate, Francis could have blocked George’s appointment should he so wish, but evidently whatever ill-feeling George’s deception had raised between them had dissipated already. The idea of working for George had given Ross pause, but ultimately he decided that he could live with it.

“Francis is Chief Magistrate. You operate under his direction.”

“And you will have other matters to concern yourself with.” Ross had to grudgingly admit – although never to anyone but himself – that having an Admiralty agent upon the bench was likely to be potentially highly useful.

“Quite.”  

“How is Elizabeth?” Ross had not had the opportunity to speak to her since the Comtesse’s funeral, but had seen her in the drawing room, looking pale and elegant in charcoal grey, holding the hand of a red-eyed Verity.

“Her health is restored.” George did not comment on the abrupt subject change, but a shadow briefly crossed his face.  

“Then you can soon put her back to work.” Again, George did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “She is one of your agents, is she not?”

“The best I could ever ask for.”

“And yet by letting her act for you, you exposed her very nearly to her death.” Ross almost took a step back at the anger which flared in George’s eyes. For a moment he actually thought the other man might strike him; but the emotion was quickly smothered, and George merely frowned.

“Boucher’s attempt on Elizabeth’s life had naught to do with our work, but her friendship with poor Séraphine. And if you believe that I ‘let’ Elizabeth do anything, you are sorely mistaken. Elizabeth may have been intended for life as a society wife, but she was made for far greater. If you do not understand that, then you did not know her at all.”

Ross glanced away. George was right, of course. _Yet another thing you could never have offered her_ , a nasty little voice whispered in Ross’ head.

“Speaking of Elizabeth, I must return to her.” George made to withdraw, but paused in the doorway. “Welcome home, Ross.”

~

_Screeeechh._

Ross grimaced. The rusted handle of the old water pump in Nampara’s yard continued to vocally protest at being forced to work after so many years of inaction. It took several extremely hard-fought pumps on Ross’ part before the spout the coughed out a stream of filthy, evil-smelling liquid. Perhaps with a bit more patience – and a lot more sweat – it could be coaxed back into working life, but Ross felt it was probably for the better if he bore the expense of replacing the pump altogether.

He would have to trek to the village again to collect water from there. Coming back to the house for the first time in almost a decade had been an emotional experience. The place was in a terrible state of disrepair – one of the outbuildings had even collapsed altogether; under the weight of a storm, Francis said. He had apologised for having to allow Nampara to fall slowly to ruin – Trenwith had suffered its own financial problems, and what little money he could spare for the other family estate had had to go the upkeep of the occupied cottages and crofts. It would take some very hard work to return the place to a properly habitable standard, but Ross was confident that he could do it if he really put his mind to it. He had some money put by in London – although it would require a trip back to retrieve it.

“Captain Poldark, Sir.” A young man he recognised as a Trenwith servant appeared from behind one of the outhouses, carrying a rectangular parcel wrapped up in brown paper. Hurrying over, he handed it to Ross. “Master sends this.”

“Thank you, er…”

“Harry, Captain.”

“Thank you, Harry.” With a respectful nod, Harry took off back in the direction he had come, evidently not expecting a reply. Curiously, Ross turned the package over in his hands. About twice the size of an ordinary book, but much flatter; a folded note was tucked into the string tied around it.

Deciding it was a decent time for a few moments’ respite, Ross went back into the house, sitting at the ancient dining-table, which had somehow endured, and pouring himself a cup of ale. Unfolding the note, he squinted at Francis’ spidery script.

_Cousin,_

_After Uncle Joshua’s death, Verity and I cleaned out the house – taking what we thought should be preserved back to Trenwith for safekeeping. Shamefully, I had forgotten all about it until today when I found this. Everything else is stored in the attics, I believe, and I will have it taken down soon. In the meantime, I hope this will make you feel more at home._

_Since I doubt you’ve engaged a cook, please do come to Trenwith for dinner whenever you wish. It is rather quiet here since Verity went home to Falmouth._

_Your affectionate cousin,_

_Francis_

It hadn’t really occurred to Ross that Francis was entirely alone at Trenwith now, for the first time in his life. Ross had become used to living by himself, and even he would not like to spend his days and night rattling around that great old place with no company.

Setting the letter aside, he unwrapped the parcel to find a framed picture inside. At the sight of it, he felt a prickle in his eyes, which he crossly wiped away. A simple charcoal portrait in a plain wooden frame, its appearance at first glance belied its significance. It portrayed a young woman with dark hair and bright, sparkling eyes, the corner of her mouth just hinting at the beginning of a smile. Grace Poldark – Ross’ mother. It had been her sister-in-law, Verity Poldark Sr. who captured this likeness, only a few months before Grace’s sudden, final illness. The picture had sat upon the parlour mantelpiece ever since. Ross could not believe he had forgotten about it.

“It’s been a terribly long time, Mama.” He murmured, blinking furiously to clear the uncomfortable wateriness which had overcome his vision. Standing, he crossed into the parlour and stood a moment in the cold, dusty room before stepping forward and putting Grace back in her rightful place. She gazed out at him with her wry amusement and Ross felt her loss more keenly than he had in decades.

“Jus’ got t’get place fit for ‘er now, I reckon.” Ross started, swinging round to see this unexpected visitor. So absorbed had he been in his melancholy, he had not heard them enter. He relaxed instantly upon recognising them however – the round face more lined now, the stringy hair almost completely grey, but he knew her instantly.

“Prudie!” Jud and Prudie Paynter had been servants of the Nampara Poldarks for years – never the most efficient, exactly, but Ross had known them both since he was a baby.

“I could ‘ardly believe my ears when I ‘eard you was back, Master Ross, or I should say, Cap’n Ross, now.”

“How are you, Prudie?”

“Oh, old Prudie be getting’ along all right, I s’pose. Bit o’ work ‘ere and there off Mister Francis.”

“And Jud?”

“Gone, Sir.”

“Oh. I am sorry.” Jud had been a slovenly, old drunk and he and Prudie had fought like cats and dogs most of the time.

“Oh, ‘e be not dead! No so far as I knows, anyhow. Jus’ buggered off somewhere I don’t know of, like. Better off without ‘im, I is.” Ross let out an involuntary laugh, and Prudie chuckled. “Ye got lots of work t’ do ‘ere, I reckon. So what say you gets on wi’ it and I makes ye somethin’ t’ eat? Be jus’ like twenty year ago.”

If it was just like twenty years ago then Prudie’s cooking was damn near inedible, but it was still the best offer Ross had heard in a while.

“Thank you, Prudie.”

“I be ever so glad ye’re back, Master Ross. ‘Ome sweet ‘ome, like.” She bustled off into the kitchen – although there wasn’t much in there for her to cook – just as there came a knock at the front door. Ross opened it to find a messenger boy who thrust a note into his hand and then shifted impatiently from foot to foot awaiting his penny.  Francis’ writing greeted Ross once again when he unfolded the paper.

_It seems I must disturb you once more, Cousin. I urgently require the services of some efficient constables at Truro Church. Nampara shall have to wait for your attentions a while. She has waited long enough, after all. I am sure a little longer won’t hurt._

Ross smiled wryly. Home sweet home, indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! 
> 
> This is one of my most popular fics, I hope you all enjoyed it. There is a sequel, which I will try to get posted soon. :D


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